Santa Ana Wind Part III Dillon
by Serialgal
Summary: Don and Charlie face Dillon Moran, the brightest and most dangerous of the Moran brothers, who uses Don in an attempt to get to Charlie.
1. Prologue Chapter 1

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**Santa Ana Wind**

**Part III – Dillon**

_A/N: This is part three of the Santa Ana Wind series. For those of you who haven't read the first two stories, or if you've forgotten parts of them, I provide a Synopsis of the main plot points and characters in this first posting. If you do want to read those two before this story, don't read the Synopsis first – it is definitely a spoiler. If you remember the first two stories, you can still read the below as a refresher, or skip straight to Chapter 1. Don fans should like this one – but don't worry, Charlie fans, I whump him too. _

_Credits – Many thanks to my faithful and wonderful betas, FraidyCat and Alice I. _

_Disclaimers: I don't own Numb3rs or any of the characters. I do claim the OC's and the story line. In this story, I describe actual locations, but take some liberties with the details. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead; is purely coincidental. This disclaimer applies to all chapters in this story. _

**Prologue**

**Synopsis of Parts I and II** – (Read only if you want to skip Parts I & II, or don't remember the details.) Santa Ana Wind is above all a story of brothers. In it, the Eppes brothers are pitted against the Moran brothers, Dillon, Sean, and Tommy. The Morans are of Irish heritage; and grew up in the lower middle class neighborhoods of Philadelphia. Dillon, the oldest, is a successful businessman with a dark side – he runs a variety of illegal businesses on the side, most notably a string of meth labs. Sean and Tommy are his younger brothers, both have drug problems, and at the start of **Part** **I - Tommy**, Tommy, the youngest, is in prison for drug dealing. Sean, the middle brother, has a serious meth addiction, and hatches a plot to spring Tommy free, against older brother Dillon's advice.

Parts of California are being inundated with wildfires fanned by the Santa Ana winds, including the area north of L.A., and around Lake Arrowhead. Tommy is working a fire line with some other prisoners, and Sean arranges for his escape while he is out of the prison. Charlie is on his way back from a math conference in San Francisco, and, taken by a fit of altruism, stops to help the fire marshals. He uses his FBI ID to get around the state troopers so he can offer his assistance. This mistake ends up putting him on the wrong side of Don and gets Charlie and Don into hot water with the FBI Director of Internal Control, Jason Walsh. On Charlie's way back home, he drives right into the middle of the attempted escape, and is taken captive.

While a captive, he overhears Tommy telling another escaped prisoner about the Moran family's meth businesses in LA, which are modeled after their meth houses in Philadelphia. Don and the team find him and rescue Charlie; during the rescue, Tommy is shot and killed, and Sean watches with binoculars from a neighboring hilltop, as Tommy falls into an open grave, which had been dug to bury a dead firefighter who had been caught up in the plot. Sean vows revenge against the brothers.

In **Part II - Sean**, Sean's spiraling meth addiction is slowly driving him insane – a condition known as meth psychosis. Jason Walsh has dragged the director of the FBI into the matter, and is putting a lot of heat on Don for Charlie's alleged infractions– for gaining access to the fires with his ID, and not signing waiver paperwork to be in the field. Don, for those reasons, and because Charlie's kidnapping has rattled him, bans Charlie from consulting for the LA office, thinking that it is for Charlie's own good – and Amita wholeheartedly agrees.

In spite of what Charlie overheard, the team cannot find proof of the labs, and Jason Walsh pulls Don and his team off the Moran investigation, claiming they are harassing Moran, who happens to be an old friend of Jason's. In the meantime, Sean starts out on his quest for revenge by ramming Don's SUV as Don is on his way home from work. Don is seriously injured, and ends up in the hospital. Charlie tries to convince the team that the Morans are behind the hit-and-run, but cannot. His only recourse is to go against Don's wishes and run his own investigation. He makes the connection, and gets the information to the team, who arrest Dillon and the man he hired to run the labs, his half-brother, Lenny Angelo. Sean is not named in the arrest warrant, and now is even more furious. He can't get to Don, who is in the hospital, so he goes after Charlie. In his growing insanity, he hatches a plot to recreate his brother Tommy's death.

He brings Charlie back to the construction site, and tries to lure an only partially recovered Don there, with the intent to kill them both. Charlie is injured, with an infected gunshot wound in his shoulder, and is near death, and Sean, in his madness, does not give Don the proper clues to find him. Finally giving up on Don, at least for the time being, he throws Charlie in the open grave on top of another dead firefighter, and begins to bury him alive. Don and the team have found the neighboring hilltop where Sean stashed his car and see Sean in the act. They get there in time to rescue Charlie, but Sean slips away.

While Charlie is in the hospital, Sean gains access to the Eppes household, creates a hiding place in the basement, and waits. When Charlie returns home, he tries again to lure Don by taking Charlie captive, still bent on killing them both, in a last blaze of glory, in attempt to redeem himself in Dillon's eyes. Don, to Charlie's horror, shows up according to Sean's wishes, removes his vest and his gun, and sends his team away. The team; fortunately for Don, doesn't listen any better than Charlie does, and they pretend to leave, only to return and jump Sean just as he pulls the trigger. Don is grazed by the bullet, but he and Charlie get out relatively unscathed, and Sean is captured.

Dillon unfortunately, gets out of prison – the judge throws out Charlie's work because of his kidnapping, citing a conflict of interest, and Lenny Angelo, out of fear for his life, takes the rap for Dillon. Don, although completely shaken by the whole ordeal, is finally convinced by Charlie and his team to allow Charlie to consult again. The brothers still bear psychological scars, and Charlie a possible permanent shoulder disability, as Part III opens.

**Part III - Dillon Chapter 1 **

Dillon Moran tooled his BMW up the winding roads in the Hollywood hills. He took his time, pulling over where he could; surveying the road behind him to make sure he wasn't being followed. He didn't trust his home after the feds had crawled through it – God only knew what kinds of bugs they might have placed. He was having it swept, but it would take awhile before the people he hired could clear it; although they were experts, the home and grounds were sizable. In the meantime, he was using an untraceable cell phone, calling from remote locations.

Finally satisfied that if there was anyone following him, they were far enough away that they couldn't remotely pick up his conversation, he pulled off into the parking area for a scenic overlook. It was mid-afternoon, and the only people there were some Japanese tourists, a group of young college-age kids, busily snapping pictures of themselves and the view. He strode away from them to the other side of the lot, the cool breeze tugging at his tailored suit. After a brief respite, the Santa Ana wind was picking up again – not as potent as it had been in October, but it was back, along with a sporadic wildfire or two. He could hear it whistling past the cell phone as he put it to his ear, and he knew he would have to speak over it. It didn't matter; the tourists were far enough away, plus the wind drowned out sound, sending any conversation swirling away over the hilltops. He hit speed dial, and put the phone to his ear. "I'm clear. Can you talk?"

"_Yeah_," came the voice from the other end.

"I've got a new man assigned to the programming. He's taking everything I've got in Philly and Jersey, and rerouting it."

"_Going forward, or history?"_

Dillon shot a glance at the tourists, making sure they were keeping their distance. "Both. He's already modified the banking transactions going forward, but he needs to go back and cover past transactions. And he needs get into tax records again. He knows what to do once he's in their system, but he needs access, just like Mick did. Can you get us that?"

"_Yeah. He's modifying any connections to my accounts, too, right?"_

"Of course, Jason – yours and mine. It will be a little tougher to capture it all – it will take some time. The business out East has been in operation a lot longer than the one in L.A. – he has to track down a lot of past transactions. I'm thinking we go after the hard copies of the tax records from the start – if we could get our hands on those, modify them and return them without anyone knowing, it would seal the deal. We wouldn't have to bust them out of some prosecutor's office."

There was a pause. "_I might be able to put someone on that from my end. How long will it take for your guy to finish the programming?_"

Dillon steeled himself for the response. "Four to six weeks."

Swearing blistered the line. "_That's way too long, Moran. They're getting ready to start an investigation out of the Philly office_."

"That's your department," replied Dillon coldly. "You're the one who works for the Bureau. You need to figure out a way to hold them up."

There was an angry pause on the other end, and Dillon could almost see Walsh's expression. "_All right. I can do that, but it's going to add another level of risk to this. When your guy is done with his changes, is it going to be foolproof? There'll be no way anyone could track back through what he did?_"

"He says no – the transactions will be erased, permanently. No way to track them. Just like what Mick did with the L.A. records. Even now, before he makes the changes, it would be tough to figure out – you'd need a hell of a search program."

The voice on the other end dripped with contempt. "_Like the kind of thing Dr. Eppes managed to come up with for the L.A. businesses? You saw how well that worked out_."

"That's exactly why you need to come up with a way to track their investigation. You buy us a month or so, and your ass – and mine – are covered." Dillon paused. "What are the chances the Philly office would call in Eppes on this?"

"_None. The D.A. there wouldn't allow it after he got wind that the L.A. case was thrown out because of his involvement_. _And I'll make sure the D.A. knows._"

"Then we ought to be okay. Even if they brought in another whiz, it would take them some time to find someone, and he'd be starting from scratch. By that time, we'd have some changes already made – I'm sure it would confuse things enough that their man would have a tough time figuring it out before we were done. If not, we would deal with him."

"_Yeah, well, your guy had better know what he's doing, Moran. I've got way too much riding on this_."

"And I don't?" Moran shot back. "You just find a way to hold up the Philly investigation, and I'll do my part. Another month or so, and this will be behind us."

They exchanged stiff good-byes, and Moran snapped his cell phone shut and swept the area with a last look from keen blue eyes, narrowed against the wind. Satisfied, he walked briskly back to his BMW, which was getting an admiring glance from one of the tourists. The young man looked up as Dillon approached, and held out his camera with both hands, giving a slight bob of his head. Japanese youth was much less formal than their parents, but elements of the culture were ingrained in his gestures. "Will you take a picture of us, please?"

Moran smiled, and took the camera. "Certainly."

The group clustered at the edge of the lookout and Dillon spoke in a hearty voice as he lined up the camera. "Smile!" He took in their excited smiles with private derision, as he snapped the picture.

He handed the camera back with both hands, bowing in return to the man, mimicking him, as the young man thanked him profusely. "No problem," Dillon said magnanimously, smiling broadly. He winked playfully at a young woman, and she giggled as he returned to his car.

The group watched as Moran drove away. "Nice car," said one.

"Nice man," said another. "You see, Takao, Americans are not so bad."

Takao rolled his eyes at his girlfriend, with a grin. "And I say, they are all gangsters."

His girlfriend gave his shoulder a small shove. "You watch too many American movies," she said, and they laughed as they headed toward their SUV.

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Bradford eyed his patient from across tented fingers. "I was wondering when you'd show up."

Don paced restlessly to a window, and stood, looking out, his profile to Bradford. He looked tired, the doctor thought, tired and tense. "Yeah, well, we've been pretty busy."

He turned and moved away from the window, and sat in a chair facing Bradford, and although he slumped back into it, he looked anything but relaxed.

"I should say so," said Bradford wryly. "On top of your regular case load, you've dealt with two kidnappings and three assaults with intent to kill. Oh, and there's just the minor detail that they were directed at your brother and yourself. The fact of the matter is, you weren't coming in here until you got ordered to by Wright, am I correct?"

Don shrugged and looked away. "I was gonna get to it."

Bradford grunted. "Sure you were. Although I thought we'd progressed to the point where you were coming in on your own."

Don's eyes flashed with annoyance. "Look, I wasn't quite ready yet, okay? I've been trying to sort some things out."

Bradford's eyes narrowed with interest. "Like what?"

Don lifted a shoulder and looked away. "If I knew, I would tell you."

Bradford sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Well, it's your nickel. If you want to spout some platitudes and have me sign you off as fit for field duty, go ahead. Or you can actually get something out of this. It's up to you."

Don was silent, hanging in the armchair, one elbow propped on an arm, the fingers of that hand pulling absently at his lower lip. Bradford regarded him for a moment, and tried another tack. "How's your brother?"

Don's eyes flitted toward him, and he dropped his hand, letting it droop listlessly from the arm of the chair. "Okay. I think. I mean, he's back at school, he's working again. I still think he's dealing with fallout from what happened."

"Why do you say that?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know – it's hard to say, I guess, but I can't imagine he wouldn't be. He doesn't talk about it. He seems okay on the outside."

"But-,"

"He hasn't put much weight back on, and I don't think he's sleeping too well. But he's functioning."

"Like you."

Don shot him an annoyed glance. "Yeah. If you say so."

Bradford raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, you were doing the talking. I was just trying to figure out whether you were talking about yourself, or Charlie."

Don opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it, and sighed. "Yeah, well, I guess you could say that applied to both of us."

"Nightmares?"

Don glanced at him, and then directed his eyes to the corner. "Yeah."

"That was some pretty heavy stuff," conceded Bradford.

Silence.

"Care to talk about it?"

"No." Don looked at little abashed at his gruff response. "Not just yet."

"You need anything to help you sleep? I can get you a prescription. Or you could stick with alcohol."

Don shot him a scowl. "Who says I'm drinking?"

Bradford eyed him. "No one. Are you?"

Don's eyes flashed a little. "I have a beer or two before bed, to take the edge off. That's it – you got a problem with that?"

Bradford raised a placating hand. "Not at all. I have one or two myself at night. Look, I'm not trying to make this into something it isn't. But if you've got something bugging you, it's probably a good thing to get it off your chest. Sooner, rather than later, if you get my drift."

Don glanced at his watch. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'd like to save it for the next session." He looked up. "I need you to sign me off for active duty."

Bradford opened the file in front of him, and signed the paper inside. "It's done. I'll turn it in." Don stood, and he rose with him. "Just don't wait too long for that next session. Is your brother seeing someone - a therapist?" He took in the resulting scowl with interest, and watched as Don turned and headed for the door.

"No. I gotta go – I'll see you later."

'_Why does that not surprise me?_' thought Bradford. Both of them intensely private, both driven, both in denial, at least when it came to their emotions. They were probably more alike than either of them realized. He sighed as he looked at his signature on the release. He'd signed it off, but he didn't know any more about how Don Eppes was dealing with this than when he'd walked in – other than he didn't appear to be going off the deep end. Yet.

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Charlie stretched languorously under the blankets, and pulled Amita toward him, reveling in the feel of her body against his. He sighed, and planted a soft kiss on her nose. "I have to go," he said regretfully, and rolled away from her, swinging his legs over the side of her bed.

Amita's forehead puckered, as she propped herself on an elbow. "It's only eight o'clock," she protested, watching the sinews in his shoulders and back ripple as he leaned forward and picked up his clothing, trying not to think about how thin he still looked. "I thought we were going to watch a movie."

Charlie stood, buttoning jeans that hung at his waist. "I can't," he said, and he leaned on the bed with his good arm as he gave her another kiss. "I've got to get those tests graded – I've been sitting on them since last Friday."

She sat up, pulling the covers up to her chest, with a bemused look on her face. Her eyes traveled to the scar on his shoulder, a mark, still dark red, where the bullet had entered, and the thinner scars from the surgery that radiated from it. "You sure have been busy lately. You didn't get them done over the weekend?"

Charlie stuck his left arm into his T shirt and pulled it on over his head before inserting his right, so he wouldn't have to lift his left arm over his head, using the maneuver to hide the flash of guilt in his eyes. "I had a lot of catching up to do from when I was off," he murmured, as he slipped his blazer on. He looked at her apologetically. "I'm sorry. Dinner was good."

She smiled wryly and shook her head. "It was takeout, and you hardly ate any of it."

"Yes, I did," he protested.

"Then what was it?"

He looked at her blankly, and she laughed and waved him off. "Forget it. Go home. We'll do something tomorrow night, okay?"

He leaned over for one more kiss. "Yeah, we will. I promise."

He shot her a grin as he headed toward the door, and her heart fluttered a little at the sight of his smile. She hadn't seen too many of those, lately. She watched as the door closed, and her own smile faded a little. Things hadn't been quite the same since his ordeal. For one thing, they hadn't spent an entire night together, not once. He seemed preoccupied, distant, and her attempts to get him to confide in her always ended in denial that there was anything wrong. She wasn't stupid; she knew there was – who wouldn't have a hard time dealing with what he'd gone through? Plus, she could see it in his eyes in unguarded moments, in the tension that radiated from his body.

Truthfully; all of it had begun to make her doubt them, their relationship, just a little. The fact that he couldn't talk to her made her wonder if they really had a future. Even if his motive was unselfish; even if he was trying not to burden her, it wasn't right – if they were going to make this work, they had to be open, honest; not afraid to lean on each other when it was necessary. She kept telling herself she had to give him time, but in spite of her own admonitions, the seeds of doubt had been planted. She sighed and leaned back in the bed, letting her head plop on the pillow, and stared at the ceiling.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

Doc 2

**Santa Ana Wind Part III - Dillon**

**Chapter 2**

Don pushed wearily through his apartment door, and began to shed the trappings of the day. Vehicle keys and ID went on the end table, and he trudged slowly back toward his bedroom, removing his shoulder holster as he went, and deposited it, complete with gun, on his nightstand. When he was in a relationship, he'd put it away, at least tuck it in the drawer, but there was no need these days. There was just him. He stretched, flexing his shoulders, adrift for a moment.

He'd stopped at Charlie's earlier, only to find no one home. He hadn't been over in a few days, and even though he'd seen Charlie in the office almost every morning that week, it was always a quick visit before his brother dashed off to campus, just to touch base on the tax fraud case. They really didn't get much of a chance to talk, and Don had no idea where either Charlie or his father was that evening. He couldn't expect they'd be there, especially when he hadn't told them he was coming, but he felt disappointed just the same. He wasn't sure he was up to another night by himself.

That, however, was exactly what he was facing now. He drifted into the kitchen, and took out a frozen dinner, tossing it in the microwave with the thunk of ice on glass. He punched in the time, and as the microwave buzzed to life, drifted over to the refrigerator, and stood with it open, eyeing the beer inside. It was a little too early to start drinking, and he'd been telling the truth when he told Bradford that he kept it to just a beer or two before bedtime.

He used that drink or two to get through the night, to find the sleep that didn't want to come, and that was plagued with nightmares when it did. He was still second-guessing his decision to bring Charlie back into consulting; the demon of residual guilt plagued him in his waking hours, and morbid dreams featuring his dead brother occupied his sleep. He felt as though he was slipping into a cesspool, and dragging Charlie with him.

He stared at the beer, and then shut the door with a sigh. Trudging out to the living room, he turned on the television to catch the news, waiting for the microwave to finish his lonely, pathetic excuse for a dinner.

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Charlie let himself into the house, fighting down the feeling that had the hair standing up on the back of his neck. He hated being alone here anymore; it didn't happen often – his father was usually home, but tonight Alan was at a dinner with clients. He lugged his briefcase over to the dining room table, casting a quick glance around the room as he went. He couldn't shake the sensation that Sean Moran was going to suddenly materialize from behind the sofa, even though he knew it was impossible. The man was currently locked up in a state hospital, a facility for the criminally insane. He shrugged off the uneasiness, and depositing his briefcase on the table, he headed upstairs to take a shower.

The hot water felt good; it alleviated some of the stiffness in his shoulders, and as he loosened up, he lifted his injured arm and placed it on the shower wall to stretch it, pushing it upward until it was over his head, using the wall to get the lift that he couldn't get on his own. He was still in therapy, but the improvements were now coming in smaller increments. He had good arm strength in his biceps and triceps, but he still had difficulty lifting his arm out to the side and up – he could only get it slightly higher than his shoulder. It made shampooing his hair an awkward job, and he set about that task with a sigh of resignation.

He turned the water off, and the ensuing silence made his skin crawl. He stood there in the steam for a moment; remembering that first shower in the hospital, and how grateful he'd been to get the dirt from his hair. It made him think of the grave again, and he shuddered; then began to towel off, when suddenly his head went up. He'd heard something, downstairs – what, he wasn't sure. His heart jolted, a spasm so hard he reeled for a moment, putting a hand against the shower wall to steady himself. Stepping carefully out, he put the towel around his waist, crept out of the bathroom and to the top of the stairs, and peered down. Silence – nothing. He was imagining things, or perhaps had heard something outside, a car door maybe.

Still, he stood there for a long moment, listening, standing on shaky legs, until he'd convinced himself that there was indeed no one in the house but him. Feeling slightly ashamed of his nerves, he headed for his room to dress.

Moments later, he was downstairs, hair still damp, dressed in jogging pants and a T-shirt. He headed for the dining room table, and pulling a folder filled with tests out of the briefcase, plugged in his laptop, sat down, and started to grade.

The truth of the matter was; in spite of the fact that he hadn't picked up his full load of classes when he came back that semester, he was woefully behind. He'd been spending a lot of time on the tax fraud case, which had been difficult, because he hadn't told Amita yet he was back to consulting. There was no doubt in his mind that she wouldn't take it well, and, although he knew he couldn't hide it forever, he couldn't bring himself to tell her that he was essentially ignoring her wishes. A piece of him kept thinking that if he gave her enough time to get over what had happened, maybe get a couple of cases under his belt without incident, she'd be more accepting of his decision. So he'd put it off.

Larry knew, which was a bit unnerving, but not because Larry would ever intentionally divulge the secret. Larry was actually someone in whom Charlie had always felt he could confide. No, the fear with Larry was that he might forget it _was_ a secret, and inadvertently spill the beans. It made Charlie uneasy whenever Amita was in the same room with him. Of course, it also made Charlie nervous to work on the case at school, in case she would walk in on him, but he did it anyway. It was like a siren call – irresistible, something he couldn't ignore, and was the reason he was behind in grading the tests.

By the time Alan showed up, after ten, Charlie was nearly done. He'd gotten into a groove, plowing through test after test, and was completely immersed when he heard the door open. He sat up with a start, and took a deep breath as he saw his father, trying to hide the wave of relief.

Alan caught the flash of fear, the wide eyes in the pale face. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he said.

Charlie shrugged, putting a bland look on his face, even though his heart was thumping. "No problem," he said. "How was the dinner?"

Without appearing to, Alan studied his son. Still the same, he thought fleetingly. Still pale, too thin, too tense, resonating with the undercurrent of whatever he was feeling, deep inside. Charlie hadn't begun to deal with what had happened to him, not by a long shot. Of course, Alan could say the same thing about his older son; and for that matter, about himself. They were all trying to carry on as though it hadn't happened. Maybe that would work in the long run, but none of them seemed to be making a lot of headway. He answered. "Not bad. The usual – butter them up, schmooze a little. The food was good. Did you eat anything?"

Charlie nodded. "Amita and I got takeout. I came home to grade tests."

Alan shot him a glance as he headed for the kitchen for a glass of water. "She hasn't been spending a lot of time over here."

"She's been pretty busy," Charlie demurred.

Alan paused at the door. "Did you tell her you were consulting yet?"

Charlie's gaze wavered, and he looked at the floor. "Not exactly."

"Meaning, 'no.'"

Charlie looked up guiltily. "Right."

Alan sighed. "Son, I'm not questioning your decision to go back to consulting – you know I have my own opinion about that, and even though you knew what it was, you told me anyway. You need to be just as honest, maybe more so, with Amita."

Charlie's brow furrowed. "I'm afraid she won't take it very well."

Alan raised a brow. "That's not an excuse, Charlie."

Charlie shook his head. "No, Dad, you don't get it. She was really upset when I talked to her about it after… anyway, she was _really_ upset – she said she couldn't live with that. I'm not sure what that meant, but if I tell her now without giving her a chance to calm down, to get over -," he waved his hand vaguely – "this, I don't know what she'd do."

Alan sighed. "Charlie, you're old enough to manage your own relationships, but I can tell you from experience, honesty is a fundamental piece of any partnership."

"It's not like I don't plan on telling her," Charlie grumbled. "I'm just not ready yet."

"So I take it that's why you haven't had her over," said Alan. "You don't want her to see your work?"

Charlie looked away, evasively. "Yeah."

Alan stood for a moment, studying his profile. "Just don't let it go on too long, son."

An hour later, Charlie climbed into bed, trying to fight down the gooseflesh. What he hadn't told his father was that his consulting work wasn't the only reason he hadn't had Amita over. It was easier, far easier, to go to her place, because then he could come up with an excuse to leave before it was time to go to sleep. Once she was at the Craftsman, it was much harder to tell her to go home, especially if it got late – and sleeping with her was one thing he couldn't do right now.

He waited, a taut ball under a blanket, until his father padded down the hall to his bedroom and the light went out. His father didn't always peek in to check on him, but he did sometimes, and to avoid a confrontation, Charlie had to pretend he was asleep in his bed. As soon as darkness descended, he climbed out of bed, and curled in a ball on the floor. It didn't always work – he still had dreams about the grave – the sick, rubbery feeling of the dead fireman underneath him, the weight of the blanket of earth over him. The bed, though, with its soft mattress and suffocating blankets, was far worse than the floor, and was guaranteed to bring on unbearable nightmares. Shivering a little, he closed his eyes, and prayed for sleep.

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Mike LaBonte took a drag on the cigarette cupped in his hand, and stepped out into the dark alley, with a quick glance either way. He tossed it aside with an impatient gesture, and tucked his hands in his pockets, hunching his shoulders against the cold November air. Nighttime in Philadelphia in November called for a coat, and he cursed himself for not wearing one, along with the even blacker curses for his rotten luck. He was in deep before he'd even decided to go in on the game – he owed seventy grand to a man to whom no one should be indebted, and entering the game tonight had been a last ditch attempt to come up with enough money to stave off the hit men.

It was an illegal, high stakes poker game in a dingy backroom, and he'd backed out before he got in too far, but it was enough. He was in the hole even further, and he could feel panic fluttering in his chest. He vaguely wondered if he could turn informant. He was an FBI agent after all. He could come clean; have his mob man creditor arrested. LaBonte was terrified though, that his seamy lifestyle would completely ruin his credibility. Then he'd be out a job, and probably his life to boot.

As an agent, he knew better, he was normally more alert, especially in this part of town, but he'd gotten so immersed in his problems he didn't notice the figure lurking in the shadows. It separated itself from its leaning position on the wall, and moved out into the alley, just as he drew even. LaBonte stopped with a jerk, terror clutching his chest.

"Evenin' Mike," the figure said. "Let's walk."

Mike shot a quick glance around, then one at the figure, and fell into step beside him. Damn, they'd caught up with him already. He took another sidelong glance, trying to get a glimpse of the face under the brim of the fedora. Who in the hell wore a fedora these days, anyway?

"I hear you got cash flow problems," the figure said. "Word is that Joey Massaro is lookin' for you."

LaBonte shot him a glance that he hoped was icy. "And why do you care?"

He heard cold humor in the other voice. "I just think it'd be a shame to lose a good federal agent, that's all. This town needs all the law enforcement it can get."

LaBonte could feel a little of his initial fear subsiding. If this man had wanted to kill him, he would have done it before announcing his presence. He asked warily, "So what's your point?"

"I got a deal for you. I got someone who needs an eye on an investigation, regular reports. You do that for him, he wipes out your debt. Each report, you get some cash to pay it down. Simple."

LaBonte frowned. "What investigation?"

"One your office is conducting. Looking into the business affairs of Dillon Moran, and his associates in the Philadelphia area."

LaBonte shot him another look, and then directed his gaze to the sidewalk. The man had good intel – the Philadelphia office had picked up the Moran case just that week. "I'm not assigned to that one."

"Yeah, but I know how it works. You hear things, you guys talk to each other about your cases. And maybe, with enough incentive, you'll get yourself assigned."

"So who wants to know?"

"That's not important," said the man. His voice was cool, a half-amused monotone. "We're not talkin' a big deal here. Just a little information among friends. Of course, if you don't want it, I'll find someone else."

"Who said I didn't want it?" asked LaBonte, quickly. He looked around them as they neared the end of the alley. The man slowed, moved over into the shadows against the wall, and pressed an envelope into Mike's hand.

"That's your first installment," he said. "The first report's due tomorrow night. We want to know who's workin' the case, agents, consultants, and what their direction is. What leads are they followin' and so forth. I'll contact you with the time and place." The man paused, and Mike could make out the smirk on his lips in the darkness. "You made a wise decision. I'll wait here for a bit – you walk."

LaBonte shoved the envelope in one of his pockets along with his hands, and hunching his shoulders, strode out of the alley and down the street to his car, which he'd left in the parking lot of a bar, two blocks down. As he made the end of the block, he shot a glance behind him up the dark street. It was empty. The wind gusted, and he put his head down, and headed for the flickering neon light in the next the block.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks for the reviews - I went in and added the Prologue to the front of the first chapter, so you'll see a switch in the chapter numbering. This one is the latest, posted today, 5-12-08._

**Santa Ana Wind Part III - Dillon**

**Chapter 3**

Don groaned as the alarm sounded and extended an arm, groping for the off switch. He rolled on his back and rubbed a hand over his face. Somehow, he got his feet planted on the floor, and pointed toward the bathroom. It had been a long night again, filled with nightmares. Since he'd found Charlie in the pit, he had recurring dreams in which he was digging frantically, trying to unearth his brother, who kept sinking further into the earth. Along the way, he'd added a new one; in which they were both adrift in a dark ocean, and a relentless current kept threatening to drag them under. He was only able to get to sleep after a bit of alcohol had numbed his brain, and once there, those dreams, or variations of them, kept wrenching him from desperately needed slumber.

The first thing he did in the bathroom was to take a drink of water; his tongue felt like a wad of cotton, and his head was still foggy from lack of sleep. As he did so, he raised his eyes to the mirror and winced. He really did look as bad as he felt. He set the cup down, and leaned over the sink, supporting himself on his arms, head down for a moment. Although he'd been on plenty of assignments in his younger days in which he'd been severely sleep-deprived, his thirty-seven-year-old body was telling him that he couldn't keep going like this – he needed a break from the relentless stress, the lack of sleep. Thank God, it was Friday.

One hot shower, one protein bar, and three cups of coffee later, he was on his way to work, and actually feeling quite a bit better. Maybe he _was_ still able to function on minimal sleep – it just took a little longer to get going in the morning. Still, a voice nagged in the back of his subconscious that he was pushing the limit; that he needed to take some time and deal with what had happened. He thrust it aside – just for now, he told himself. He had work to do. Work that involved taking down a mob guy named Jimmy "the Snake" Marciano.

He stepped off the elevator, all business. Colby and David were there to greet him with a look on their faces that said they had something for him, and they gathered around Megan's desk.

Colby held up a file. "Remember Charlie saying he was looking for another set of data, or a missing connection somewhere in the tax fraud case? We think we've got it – it turns out Marciano is part owner of a chain of rental outfits. David and I went to pay a visit to the other owner yesterday – he's some poor slob in a cheap dive near Watts. He insists he's part owner, but he didn't look like he had energy to do much other than shuffle down to the corner bar."

David snorted sarcastically. "It'd surprise me if he did that much. He probably sits at home and drinks." He went on, not noticing the flicker in Don's eyes. "Anyway, we think Marciano is paying him to be a front to hide his association with the business. We're going to get this stuff to Charlie, and see if he can tie it in anywhere."

Don nodded. This would indeed be a break; Charlie had hit a point where he could go no further, and had kept insisting that he needed more data, that there was something unaccounted for. The derelict front man was hopefully the missing link. "Good. Anything new on our arsonist?"

Megan spoke up. "Yeah – another fire last night – same M.O. – accelerant sprayed in an outside vent, and the fire started in the building ductwork. We're checking the business records, but the indications are that it's the same as the first two – all of them failing businesses, on the verge of bankruptcy. All different owners though. We could probably use Charlie on this one too." At Don's hesitation, she prodded, "We need to find a common link between them."

Don sighed. "All right. I'll take that one to him this afternoon. David, you can run your info on the front man over to him this morning – maybe he can take a look at that one when he gets a break."

David nodded. "Right on it." He grabbed the file that Colby held out to him as he headed for his desk, snatched another file, and made his way toward the elevator. Don watched him go as Colby returned to his desk, and his eyes caught Megan's.

Megan was good in an interrogation room, not because she was physically intimidating, like Colby, or scarily intense, like David. She was good because she had a look that was frankly unnerving; a look that said she could see right through you. She was using it on Don now, but he pretended not to notice as he turned for his own desk. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

Don shrugged, nonchalantly. "Yeah. Why?"

"You look tired."

He shot her a look. "Still having a hard time sleeping."

"Mmm," was her only response. He didn't look at her eyes; he was afraid she'd see through him, see how strung out he really was.

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Agent Pete Wilhelm had gotten to be SAC of the Philadelphia office of the Bureau the hard way, by working his way up. At forty, he was still sharp; in great physical condition – his gray eyes bright, his medium brown hair with just a strand or two of gray. He leaned back in his chair, and studied the man across from him. District Attorney Isaac Shaw was nattily dressed for an elected official, and just as sharp. Sharp, dark, good-looking features, sharp suit, sharp black eyes; young, but with an intelligence beyond his years. He was going places, and he knew it.

"So, tell me what you have on Moran," said Shaw.

"Nothing yet," admitted Wilhelm. "We just got the case this week. I have a couple guys collecting information on his business holdings, but there's nothing suspicious so far."

Shaw's eyes glinted, and Wilhelm could almost smell the ambition radiating from the man. "This is a big one. You need to put everyone extra you've got on it. The L.A. office hired a math whiz, and he found the connection between Moran's L.A. businesses, both legitimate and not. You should be looking at that."

"Yeah, I'd heard that. I was going to try to get hold of A.D. Wright; I thought maybe we could hire the same guy."

Shaw shook his head. "No, you can forget about that. He's the reason they threw out the L.A. case."

Pete frowned. "Wait – he's the reason they had a case to begin with – and he's also the reason they threw it out? Who was it?"

Shaw nodded. "A Dr. Charles Eppes."

Pete stared at him. "Eppes? As in SAC Don Eppes?"

"Yeah, they're brothers." Shaw grimaced. "It was actually kind of a tough break. The professor had been kidnapped by Moran's brothers – I wish I knew all the details, because it sounds like quite a story. Anyway, the judge ruled it a conflict of interest; said he shouldn't have been working on the case to begin with because of the kidnapping, and threw out his work. Moran's half brother, Lenny Angelo, is taking the fall for the L.A. meth lab bust. That's another thing – you guys should be looking for Angelo's equivalent on the East Coast – someone Moran hired to run the dirty side of his businesses. I'll bet he's got a Lenny Angelo out here, too."

Wilhelm sighed. "Yeah, I think I'm gonna have to put some more agents on this one. I'll look at scaring up a consultant, too." He paused for a moment, thinking.

Shaw's eyes traveled over his shoulder, looking through the glass out toward the office, and his eyebrows rose. "Looks like you have company."

Wilhelm turned in surprise, and immediately rose to his feet. "Holy crap. That's the big – guy – Dave Maxwell – what in the hell is he doing here?" His Director, Dave Maxwell, was indeed threading his way through the bullpen, shaking an occasional hand, escorted by Wilhelm's A.D., George Norris.

Wilhelm stepped forward and opened the door. "Director, George," he greeted them, and his eyes traveled to Maxwell's face. "To what do we owe the honor?"

Maxwell stuck out a hand. "Pete. We've got something we need to address." His eyes flickered to the conference room behind Wilhelm. "Can we meet in here?"

"Sure," said Wilhelm easily, stepping back to allow them in.

Shaw had risen to his feet. "George." He nodded at Norris, and stuck his hand out toward Maxwell. "Director, I'm Isaac Shaw, District Attorney's office. I was just leaving."

Maxwell shook his head as he gripped Shaw's hand. "Isaac, we were coming to see you next. Please stay; it will save us a trip."

"Of course," said Shaw quietly, shooting Wilhelm a glance as he shut the door and the men took chairs around a conference table. There was something big going down, and he was going to be right in the middle of it. He ran a tongue over his lower lip in anticipation.

Maxwell fixed them with a direct, troubled gaze. "Gentlemen, we've got a problem."

Out in the bullpen, Mike LaBonte rose casually from his desk, and headed toward the break room, ostensibly for a coffee, but actually to cast a glance through the glass windows of the conference room. He had seen Maxwell and Norris walk through the bullpen, and now they were cloistered in the conference room with his SAC, Wilhelm, and D.A. Shaw. It was unusual enough – Maxwell had only visited the Philadelphia office one other time during LaBonte's entire eleven years there, and he itched with curiosity, wondered what had prompted the visit. Could it possibly be the Moran case? He doubted it, but he knew that Maxwell's visit would be part of his report that evening, regardless of whether or not there was a connection. He leaned against the doorway of the break room, his eyes on the conference room windows, and sipped his coffee, his mind flipping over the possibilities.

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Charlie closed his eyes tight, his arm trembling with effort; his back against the blackboard.

"Hold on," said Larry, as David stepped up to the doorway of Charlie's office and paused, wondering whether or not to intrude.

Larry finished marking the line under Charlie's arm, and set the chalk back down in its tray. "Okay, you can step away."

Charlie moved away from the blackboard, rolling his shoulder, as Larry grabbed a protractor from the desk, measuring what looked like the latest in a series of radiating lines on the blackboard. "Nine degrees above horizontal," proclaimed Larry. "You're up another two degrees from last week."

Charlie sighed. "Which is negligible, given the measurement error." He craned his neck, looking for chalk dust on his shoulder, and brushing off his jacket.

"We've minimized the relative error by examining the R-squared, and accounting for variation as much as possible," Larry reminded him. "Even with error, you can't argue that there is still an upward trend here. I commend you on your continuing efforts with your therapist."

David knocked on the doorframe. "Excuse me. May I interrupt?"

Charlie whirled with a startled expression; and his eyes traveled anxiously past David to the hallway outside. "David! Ah, yes, of course, come in."

Charlie looked decidedly nervous in spite of his welcoming statement, and David put a slight smile on his face, which he hoped was reassuring, wondering what was generating the anxiety. "I just was dropping off some new information for you on the tax fraud case. We found another link – a phony part-owner of a rental chain." His eyes traveled toward the lines on blackboard as Charlie took the files from him, leafing through them. "R-squared? R as in radius?"

Larry jumped on the question eagerly. "R as in Repeatability and Reproducibility. It's a means of calculating measurement error, commonly used in quality control. We've reduced one of the aspects of variation by having the same operator, namely myself, record the measurement each time."

He opened his mouth to continue, but was interrupted by a voice from the doorway. "Charlie?"

Charlie's head shot up, and he blanched, his eyes widening as he caught sight of Amita, who had paused, one hand on the doorframe. She had a smile on her face, but it looked frozen, and her expression was decidedly suspicious. "Am – Amita," he stammered. "Yes, what is it?"

Her eyes rested on David, who could see suspicion transforming into anger. He looked at Charlie – never had a man looked more guilty, David thought, beginning to realize why Charlie had seemed so nervous.

"That's what I'd like to know," replied Amita, the anger now leaching into her voice. "What is this?"

Larry scratched the back of his head with an uncomfortable expression, as Charlie raised a hand in a placating gesture. "It's nothing, really, just a quick question on a tax fraud case. I – ah – can we talk later? I'll tell you about it." He turned pleading eyes on her, begging forgiveness and understanding, neither of which was forthcoming.

Amita was trembling with anger, and she could feel tears threatening. He'd lied to her, she thought. After everything that had happened, after everything he'd been through, everything he'd put her through, he was consulting again, and he'd lied to her about it. Even Larry knew – apparently everyone did but her. "I can't believe you did this," she whispered, her voice shaking.

"Amita – please – I'll explain, I promise," Charlie implored.

"I've got to go – I have a class," she said abruptly, and whirled in the doorway, as Charlie took a step toward her. He stopped in his tracks, his shoulders drooping, and David and Larry exchanged a commiserating look.

David scratched the back of his head, unconsciously imitating Larry's earlier gesture. "Well, I guess I'll give you some time to look at that data. I'll see you later." He put his head down and beat a hasty retreat for the door, as Charlie turned worried eyes to Larry.

"What should I do? How do I fix this?"

Larry sighed. "I fear the only thing you can do now is to be truthful." He looked with sympathy at his friend. "Something, perhaps, which you should have considered from the start – although frankly, I don't know much benefit you would have accrued. I'm afraid she was bound to be irate, either way."

Charlie moved slowly to his desk, threw the files on it and sank onto a chair. He propped an elbow on his desk, and put his head in his hand, as if it weighed too much to support with merely a neck. "I think I blew it, Larry," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "I think I really blew it."

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End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Sorry to all- I consolidated Chapter 1 and the Prologue, and in essence created two Chapter 3's. That probably stymied anyone that wanted to review the last chapter. Just in case you missed it - go back and check Chapter 3 - it's a new chapter, and with the numbering there's a chance you didn't read it yet. If not, I guess you get two in one day! I see a lot of story alerts out there - I'd love to hear from you._

**Chapter 4**

Late in the afternoon, Don tooled his way through the L.A. traffic, the arson case files on the seat of his SUV. There was an odd little whistling noise near the windshield since the vehicle repair after his accident, which normally annoyed him, but today, his mind was occupied. He'd been half-hoping Charlie would be appeased by the tax fraud case; that maybe he could hold off giving him another one for a while. Feed him just enough to keep him happy, look for cases that would involve a minimum amount of fieldwork. It seemed though, as soon as he'd turned the spigot, the cases started flowing again of their own accord – now he had the arson case to pass on. In spite of his good intentions, cases just seemed to find Charlie. It made Don feel even more uneasy about the situation than he already did.

It was close to four as he strode through the hallway to Charlie's office. Close enough to call it a day – maybe he could entice Charlie into going out for a beer with him, or at least he could get himself invited over to the Craftsman. Anything but face another solitary night. As he drew closer, he could hear a raised voice coming from the office, and even through the closed door, he recognized it as Amita's. '_An argument,_' he thought with wince, '_it sounds like a doozy._'

He paused, hesitating, trying to decide where to go to wait it out, and although the words were muffled, they were delivered in a tone loud enough to make their way through the door. "You can forget it! I can't go through that again! You know how I felt about it, and you did it anyway – and not only that, you lied to me!" There was an undecipherable response in a tone of entreaty, and then Amita's voice again. "No – I can't do this any more, Charlie. You need to think about what you really want here. In the meantime, I think we need to take a step back."

Don could hear Charlie's voice again, still unintelligible, and then Amita's vehement reply, now closer to the door. It burst open before Don could retreat, and Amita stormed out, tears running down her face. She spied him, sending him a look laced with fury and vitriol, and stabbed a finger at him. "How could you?!" she spat, her voice shaking, as she passed him. "I thought you were on _my_ side. You're both _idiots_!" A sob escaped, and she hurried past, as Don stared at her, nonplussed.

He recovered his senses enough to move toward the office, and one word came to mind. Pitiful. Charlie had sunk into his chair at his desk, his shoulders slumped dejectedly, raising stunned eyes to Don as he appeared in the doorway; and the expression on his face was just that – pitiful.

"Hey, Buddy," said Don softly, helplessly. As if he didn't feel badly enough about his brother's consulting, now it had caused a break between him and Amita. He moved toward Charlie, and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I guess I screwed that up," Charlie said, looking down at his desk, trying for sarcasm, but his voice cracked a little. "Dad and Larry both told me I should have told her from the beginning, but I didn't listen to them."

"She probably wouldn't have been happy about it either way," said Don. He hoped his voice sounded soothing, but he was afraid it came across as simply discouraging.

"Yeah, but then I wouldn't have lied to her on top of it," said Charlie. He raised heartbroken eyes to Don. "She said she couldn't trust me anymore, that we must not really have a relationship that means anything if I won't confide in her - I don't know what to do."

Don didn't either, and he thought to himself privately that he was the last person qualified to give advice to the lovelorn. There was no way to tell how this was going to work out, but he knew instinctively that whatever the outcome, only time would tell. "You need to give her a chance to digest it Buddy, that's all you can do right now. Let her have the weekend, or longer if she needs it, to think about it and calm down." Charlie had bowed his head again, and suddenly the arson case didn't seem that important.

Don cleared his throat, and gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze. "I – uh – I could use some company myself tonight. What do you say we go out for a bite to eat, and maybe a beer? What's Dad doing tonight?"

Charlie shook his head morosely. "I don't know. I'm not sure I want to face him anyway. He's going to be upset."

"So then we'll go, just the two of us." Charlie looked up at him, with gratitude peeking through the bleakness in his eyes, and in spite of the sad situation, the expression made Don feel warm inside. He put his arm around Charlie as he rose, and gave his shoulders a squeeze, a gesture generated by a surge of love and protectiveness. After a couple of weeks of feeling needy, it was good to be needed.

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William Koslowski rubbed a mechanical pencil against his head, and it ruffled his thinning hair. It was mousy brown and getting sparse on top, in spite of the fact that he was only thirty-six. That, and his decidedly unstylish glasses with Coke bottle lenses, the ratty brown vest, and his thin, stooped body, gave him the look of a man ten years older.

He knew he wasn't a 'people' person. He was a geek, a bona fide nerd, and perversely a little proud of it. Math was his world, and he was well on his way to tenure at Philadelphia University as a professor of applied mathematics. Oddly enough, in spite of his lack of social skills, he was a popular teacher. He would have been mortified to know that his social ineptness was so extreme it had somehow endeared him to his students. He was an oddity, a bit of a freak, and his students affectionately referred to him as "Wild Willy."

It was late on a Friday night, and he wasn't expecting visitors, so when the bell rang at his modest suburban home, he peered out through window in the door side panel cautiously. Two men in suits stood on his front porch, and as they caught movement in the window, one of them flashed a badge. Even under the porch light, it was apparent that it said, "FBI." Willy opened the door and blinked at the men myopically. "Can I help you?"

"We hope so, Dr. Koslowski," said one of them, extending his hand. "I'm Agent Pete Wilhelm, this is Agent Brad Decker. May we come in?"

Willy shook his hand and blinked again, and then stood back, with a sweep of his hand. "Certainly. Come in."

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Charlie took a long swig of his draft beer and set the mug down with thunk, and poked at his plate half-heartedly. They'd opted for a little place near Don's apartment that was first and foremost a bar, but was renowned for its burgers. An immense sandwich covered half of Charlie's plate with a towering pile of fries next to it – an 'in-your-face' greasy taunt to the more chic, trendy eateries that catered to the Hollywood crowd and their hangers-on.

Don took a healthy bite of his sandwich and a drink of his own beer. He was matching Charlie, easily – they were both on their third, and the mugs were large. The difference was, Don was soaking some of his up with food, and Charlie appeared to be on a liquid diet. He was already slurring his words a little, and Don was barely feeling the effects. "You'd better eat something, Buddy," he advised.

Charlie sighed and picked up a French fry, waving it around a little before taking a listless bite. He chased it down with another swig of beer. "I ham sso screwed," he said. He picked up another extra long fry, and waved it back and forth. "If thiss was long enough, I could generate a ssine wave."

Don hid a grin behind his sandwich, took a bite and swallowed. "Look, you'd better eat some of that. When I called Dad, I told him we were going out to grab a bite. He'll have my head if I take you home drunk and without some dinner in you."

Charlie picked up his sandwich and grimaced. "I don't wanta go home," he grumbled around a bite of burger. He managed to get the bite down, and looked at Don. "Can I ssstay at your place tonight? The lass thing I need is a buncha queshtions from Dad."

Don felt an odd rush of relief at the request. The last thing _he_ needed was another night alone- and Charlie needed him, he reminded himself. He felt a wave of happiness at the thought that surprised him with its intensity. After the weeks of arguing and the horrible experience of thinking he'd lost Charlie, and the sting of knowing that Charlie had chosen to confide in one of his agents instead of him, here they were – hanging out, Charlie finally leaning on him – _him_. Big brother.

Big brother looked across the table and grinned, as he watched Charlie dutifully trying to manage another bite, a wad of burger in his cheek. Charlie's gaze was focused on the table, and Don's expression softened a little at the desolation in his brother's eyes. "Yeah, sure, Charlie. We can hang out at my place. I'll call Dad again and tell him."

Charlie sighed with relief, and the grateful look he sent across the table suddenly made Don feel like a traitor. After all, it was consulting for him that had caused the rift between Charlie and Amita to begin with. Everything bad that had happened in his brother's life lately all seemed to come back to that.

The little food that Charlie did have seemed to give him some equilibrium, and they made it up the stairs to Don's apartment without incident. He got them each another beer; and they plopped on the sofa. Charlie still looked miserable, and Don turned the TV on, but left the sound off, along with the lights except for the one in the kitchen, and the only illumination came from there, and the silver radiation emanating from the TV screen. It played across Charlie's features, and made his dark eyes black, unreadable. He had half his beer down already, Don noted, with raised eyebrows. Apparently his little brother could give him a run for his money.

He liked this, Don decided. In spite of Charlie's obvious distress over Amita, it still felt good to be together, and a thought suddenly occurred to Don as to how to prolong it through the next day. "The permit for your gun came in," he said.

Charlie made a face, and shrugged. Several days ago, Don had talked him into applying for a permit for a handgun. Charlie had argued at first; he wasn't crazy about the idea of having a firearm, but Don convinced him it would be good to have for self-defense. Even then, it was only the promise of getting to spend time with Don at the firing range that made Charlie concede. Don had helped him apply, and managed the communication with the gun shop.

At his silence, Don pressed, "Maybe we can pick it up tomorrow, and go out to the range."

Charlie shrugged again, and sighed, then shot a rueful look at Don. He didn't want to seem ungrateful. "Yeah, okay."

Don studied him. "You think anymore about the courses at Quantico?" He had been pressing Charlie to take some courses in self-defense, and possibly some others to improve his situational observation skills.

"Yeah," Charlie replied quietly. "I think if I'm going to go, I'd better do it before the end of this semester. I pick up my full load of classes again next term."

"Maybe I'll go with you, depending on how busy we are. There are a couple of courses I've been looking at, a new one and a refresher. I think David was looking at some too. We can fly out together."

Charlie nodded. "That would be good."

They lapsed into silence for a while, and the recent events rose like specters in Don's mind; in the quiet and the gloom he couldn't keep them away. Like a rat returning though a maze, his thoughts kept wandering back to the construction company, where Charlie had spent what were nearly the last days of his life. His mind shied away from the awful recollection of finding Charlie in a makeshift grave, and he backtracked, turning over what had happened before that point, and settled on a question that had bothered him since it happened. "Why did you lie?" he asked quietly.

Charlie blinked, but kept his brooding eyes on the television screen. His words weren't as slurred as before, but it was apparent that he had to corral his tongue before speaking, to keep from stumbling over it. "Because she'd made it clear she didn't want me consulting anymore. I wanted to wait until I'd gotten though a couple of cases without a problem – I thought maybe she'd take it better."

"No, I mean to me - at the construction office, when Sean Moran put you on the phone. Why did you say you didn't know where you were?"

Charlie shot him a glance. "You really need to ask that?"

Don shook his head. "Charlie, we could have been there so much sooner. You should have told us."

Charlie looked back at the screen. "I couldn't take the chance. Knowing you, you'd go all Superman on me or something, and show up by yourself. That's what he wanted."

Don stared at him. "But you had no way of knowing whether someone else would come. How could you count on that?"

Charlie took another long swallow of beer. "I wasn't," he said quietly. He glanced quickly at Don, then away again. "I figured that was it. I didn't think I was getting out of there."

Don stared at him, his throat tightening. The corner of Charlie's mouth quirked, and he gazed at his beer bottle as he continued. "I wondered, at the time, if you knew. I knew that Dad knew, and Amita – at least I thought she did at the time – I guess I don't know about now - but I didn't know if you did." He turned his eyes toward Don, huge and serious.

Don stared back in confusion, trying to process the ramble. "Buddy, you completely lost me there. Knew what?"

"That I love you," said Charlie simply. "I never said it, but I hoped you did – knew it, I mean. I don't know if brothers say that to each other much, but I figured when I got the chance, I should tell you sometime."

Don's eyes stung with tears, and he covered quickly by taking another swig of beer, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. When he found his voice again, it was husky. "I love you too, Buddy," he said, and chanced a glance sideways. The look in Charlie's eyes suddenly made the world right again. Don smiled, stuck out his bottle, and they clinked the necks together. "Here's to brothers."

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That conversation was the highlight of the evening. In fact, when Don thought about it later, it was one of the highlights of his life. Unfortunately, things went downhill from there. Every dark-haired beauty that came on the television screen reminded Charlie of Amita, and sent him in to the kitchen for another beer, and, as Don realized after the third trip, a slug of the tequila on the counter. At one point, Charlie called her – Don could hear his voice from the kitchen, pleading with her on the phone, and although he'd been keeping Charlie company in the drinking department, he still had enough brain cells left to know that any conversation with Amita at that point was probably not a good idea.

She apparently had the same thought; the discussion didn't last very long. Don hustled out to the kitchen in time to see Charlie frantically redialing her, and he wrestled the phone away, muttering a warning about harassment that he hoped was intelligible. As he peered at the phone to make sure the call hadn't connected, Charlie had staggered over for another shot of tequila, which proved to be his last. A short time later he had passed out on the sofa, face down. Don pulled his shoes off, put a blanket over him and staggered off to bed himself.

Two hours later, Don found himself sitting upright in bed, bathed in sweat. That wasn't an uncommon occurrence lately, but this time, it wasn't a nightmare that had disturbed his sleep. As he sat there trying to figure what had wakened him, he heard it again – a low cry of distress from the living room. He was out of bed in a flash, and stumbled into the next room, where he stopped for a minute, trying to get his bearings. Even in the dark, he could see that the sofa was unoccupied, and as he stepped forward cautiously, he spied a dark form huddled on its side on the floor. As he bent over Charlie, his heart contracting, he realized his brother was shaking, and obviously still asleep.

He put out a hand and touched his arm. "Charlie. Buddy."

The reaction was immediate; Charlie jerked upright, still shivering. His eyes were open wide, but staring at nothing, unfocused, and he was breathing heavily, as if terrified. Don sank down next to him, and put his arms around him, trying to calm him. "Shh. It's okay, Buddy, it's just a dream." Charlie tensed; then slowly began to relax as awareness came back into his eyes.

A final shudder ran through him, and his eyes drooped slightly as he leaned against Don. "Sssorry," he slurred.

"It's okay. Why don't you get back up on the sofa?"

Charlie shook his head, groggily. "No, s'okay, floor's good." He pulled away from Don, and laid back down in a fetal position on the floor, batting away the blanket as Don tried to cover him.

Don sat there for a moment, then shook his head sadly, and got up and bumped up the thermostat a few degrees. He grabbed the blanket and lay down on the sofa himself, with one arm trailing, his hand resting on Charlie's shoulder, and drifted off to sleep.

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Charlie stirred, opened his eyes, and closed them again, with a grunt. His head was pounding, and his tongue felt three times its normal size. He could hear water running in the kitchen and the clink of Don's coffee pot, and with a huge effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position with his good arm and leaned back against the sofa. For a moment, he wondered how he'd gotten there, but then pieces of the night came back to him, and with them, the memory of his fight with Amita. At the thought, he closed his eyes, and groaned aloud.

He heard footsteps, and opened his eyes again to see a glass of orange juice suspended in front of him. It was attached to a hand, and he followed the arm with bleary eyes up to Don's face, as he reached for the glass. "Thanks," he muttered.

Don eyed him with a sympathetic but slightly amused grin. "Looks like you fought with José and lost," he said.

Charlie grimaced. "Before I walk into the kitchen, maybe you can put José in the cabinet. I don't think I can even stand to look at the bottle this morning." He shuddered a little and took a tentative sip of his orange juice. "Whose bright idea was that, anyway?"

Don smirked. "It must have been yours. I don't remember offering you tequila."

Charlie set the orange juice on the floor, squinting, but then his eyes widened in alarm. "I called her last night, didn't I? Did I call her? What did I say?" He looked at Don in panic.

Don shook his head. "I don't think you got a chance to say a whole lot. She hung up on you – you were trying again when I got out to the kitchen and stopped you."

Charlie moaned and put his face in his hand. "And I thought I couldn't screw it up any worse…"

Don cut him off. "Look, take it from someone with experience, there's no sense stewing over it." He held out a hand and helped him to his feet, grabbing his arm as Charlie swayed a little. "Come into the kitchen and sit down. Let's get some food into you."

Charlie's stomach churned at the thought of food, but he didn't protest; primarily because it was taking everything he had to make to the kitchen chair. He plopped into it, and rested his aching head in one hand, his eyes closed. The orange juice made its reappearance, followed by a steaming mug of coffee, and he opened his eyes and wrapped his hands around it gratefully, lifting it to his lips like a precious vial of elixir. Sipping and setting it down carefully, he looked across the table at Don, who had pulled up a chair and was sipping at his own mug. The morning light illuminated his brother's face, and Charlie noticed the dark smudges under his eyes, and a line or two that hadn't been there before. "You look tired."

Don avoided his eyes, looking into his mug as if for a response, and shrugged. "I haven't been sleeping too well." He glanced up, and caught Charlie's solemn expression. "It's not a big deal. I'm sure it's temporary."

"You've been through a lot lately," said Charlie softly. "You probably ought to talk to someone." His brother's penchant for denying his feelings was something that had always worried him, and the uneasy thought added to his own emotional stew.

Don snorted, but felt pleased inside at Charlie's concern, in spite of himself. "Look who's talking. I'm not the one still sleeping on the floor." Charlie looked away, and Don studied him for a moment. He'd kept the comment light, but the fact was; he was disturbed that Charlie had ended up there last night. Charlie had problems with the bed, he knew, after the traumatic experience of being buried alive, but Don thought his brother would have gotten through that by now. Last night, he had thought perhaps it had merely been a result of the alcohol, but Charlie's reaction to his statement made him suspect otherwise. It couldn't be, he told himself, Amita would surely have noticed – but he asked the question anyway. "Is that an every-night occurrence, still?"

Charlie shot him a guilty glance, and paused, weighing his reply, but Don took the look as a confession, frowning, as he continued. "What does Amita have to say about that?"

Charlie's eyes dropped. "She doesn't know," he admitted in a low voice.

Don stared at him, as he processed that. That meant they weren't sleeping together, and that added to the fact that Charlie hadn't told her he was consulting – no wonder Amita was feeling left out of the equation. "Charlie," he began. His voice was gentle, but he couldn't keep the admonishing tone out of it, and Charlie cut him off, with a tired wave of his hand.

"I know, I know," he said wearily. "Believe me, I've heard it from Dad already."

"He knows you're still sleeping on the floor? I can't believe he hasn't parked a shrink on your doorstep."

"No, he doesn't know that," said Charlie crossly. "I don't see what the big deal is anyway. Nobody should care whether I sleep on a floor, or in a tree, for that matter."

"You apparently do," Don pointed out quietly. "Otherwise, you wouldn't care if Amita knew."

Charlie's shoulders drooped and he stared into his mug, miserably. The discussion was bringing to a head memories and feelings he'd been trying with all his might to suppress. He swallowed, and whispered, "I just want it to go away – I'd figured it would have by now."

Don took in the expression on his brother's face, and felt a surge of pity, along with a twinge of guilt. He'd suspected Charlie was still dealing with some residual anxiety, but he hadn't realized the extent of it. When had his brother gotten so good at hiding his feelings? There was a new element of opaqueness to him that hadn't been there before. "Charlie," he said gently, "you were nearly killed." He didn't mention the live burial, which was a reminder Charlie didn't need, and he wasn't sure he could safely put it into words, himself. "You can't just wave that away. You really need to get some professional help. I did." Charlie looked up at that, and Don nodded. "I saw Bradford this week, and I'm planning on going back."

He didn't mention the fact that the visit had been cursory; what mattered was that he did intend to go back. At least that's what he told himself.

"Yeah," said Charlie. "I guess I should." His voice was doubtful, but Don didn't push it any further, instead rising from his chair.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

Charlie made a face. "Nothing. Coffee's good, thanks."

"Come on," said Don heartily, as he reached for a loaf of bread, and inspected it for mold. "You can eat toast, anyway. Maybe we'll take a run out to the shooting range later."

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Jack O'Brien slid into the driver's seat of his car and shut the door. His alert green eyes took in the surrounding parking lot and flashed in the rearview mirror, briefly resting on his own reflection, as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. He never programmed contacts like Dillon Moran into his cell phone; it was too risky. Instead, he memorized the numbers, and wiped his received and recently-called lists clean each time he spoke with them. It was a little more trouble, but he rested easier, knowing if the cell phone was lost or stolen and somehow made it into the hands of the police, they would find nothing. It was the kind of discretion that made him valuable to his contacts; that and a sharp mind. He was a utility man, and a good one – no one better in the Jersey/Philly area. On top of that, he was a personal friend of the Morans. His family and theirs went way back – their alliance formed by their fathers.

It was around noon on Saturday his time; which made it nine in the morning in L.A., and Dillon answered on the second ring. "Jackie," he said softly, from the rear seat of his new Mercedes. The vehicle was empty and parked near a downtown plaza; he'd sent the driver for a paper. "How's it going?"

"I lined up a guy inside, like you asked. Name is Mike LaBonte, an experienced agent in the Philly office. Gambler, owes the mob money; he jumped at the offer. He knew about the case, but isn't working it. I told him to try to get himself assigned."

Dillon had the faintest trace of disappointment in his voice. "That's it?"

"There's not a lot yet," admitted O'Brien. "He's only been on it one day, we talked last night. There was something interesting, though; it may or may not be related to this case. LaBonte said yesterday that the Director of the Bureau, Dave Maxwell, showed up in person. Met with the A.D., Norris, the SAC, Pete Wilhelm, and the District Attorney – he's a young guy – you may not know him, Isaac Shaw. Closed-door meeting; and Wilhelm didn't pass on any of it to his agents – or at least not all of them. LaBonte said he met later with the two agents assigned to your case, but he didn't know if it was just a preplanned update, or if Wilhelm was passing on intel from his meeting with Maxwell."

Dillon was silent for a moment. "I talked to Jason Walsh yesterday; he didn't say anything about Maxwell going to Philadelphia."

O'Brien's features twitched slightly in a facial approximation of a shrug. "I doubt Maxwell clears his agenda with him. Especially if it's not a personnel issue."

"Yeah," said Dillon, but his expression remained doubtful. "Okay, thanks, Jackie. Keep on that LaBonte guy – tell him we need more, and we need it quicker."

"Right."

"Anything from Patrick?" Patrick Conaghan was Dillon's front man for the illegal businesses in the Philly area, just as Lenny Angelo had been in L.A. He'd asked Jackie to keep in regular contact with him, and for Patrick to keep an eye on possible law enforcement inquiries.

"Nothing. He says it's quiet."

"Okay. Lean on LaBonte – make him earn his pay."

"You got it," came the reply, and Dillon flipped his phone shut, his eyes narrowing as he processed the information. The fact that Jason hadn't said anything about a fairly significant visit by Maxwell meant one of three things. The first possibility was that he truly didn't know it had occurred, but it had no bearing on their situation. The second was more ominous – Jason didn't know it occurred, and there _was_ a connection with their situation. That option meant perhaps, Maxwell didn't trust Jason with information concerning Dillon's case – not a good sign for either of them. The third option was that Jason did know about the visit, but hadn't told Dillon – and that possibility was even more disturbing. It very well might mean that Walsh had turned – and was cooperating with the Bureau to save his own ass.

Dillon thought for a minute more, and yet another option occurred to him – perhaps Walsh did know about the visit, and knew it didn't apply to them, so he didn't bring it up. It seemed odd though, that he wouldn't at least mention it. But then, Dillon hadn't told Walsh that he was putting his own man, O'Brien on this, either. The way things were evolving, he was glad he had.

The upshot of all of this was he had to make a decision – should he bring it up with Walsh, or not? Honestly, if Walsh had turned evidence and was no longer on his side, Dillon knew things were hopeless, regardless. There would be nothing he could do to squirm out of this, because the Bureau would be monitoring any moves he might make through Jason – and frankly, they probably already had enough evidence. Furthermore, if the reverse was true; if Walsh was still in this with him, then Jason needed to know what was going on. Dillon really had nothing to lose by bringing it up – and in addition, the direct approach suited him. He'd never been one to skirt issues. He opened his cell phone again, and dialed Walsh. "Jason."

Jason Walsh held up an apologetic hand to his wife and stepped from the kitchen, as he replied. "Yeah. Give me a sec."

It took him several seconds to get to his study; his tastefully furnished Maryland home was large. The phone call was a rankling reminder that some of that home and the furnishings had been made possible by his association over the years with Dillon Moran. As much as Walsh coveted the trappings of wealth, his nice home, his dream retirement home secretly being built on Mustique, the cars, the trophy wife – he hated the connection to Moran. It was a reminder of his past life, his ordinary middle-class roots. Even worse, that association was getting increasingly dicey. If Moran went down, chances were good he'd go along for the ride.

"What is it?" he asked a bit gruffly, as he moved into the study and eased the door shut.

"You hear anything about Maxwell taking a trip to Philly?" Dillon asked; his voice light, casual.

"What? No – when is he going?"

Dillon felt a glimmer of relief. Walsh's tone was quite believable – filled with the appropriate amount of surprise and concern. "I've got a man tied in to the Philly office – he said Maxwell was there yesterday for a closed-door meeting with Pete Wilhelm and George Norris. The D.A. was there too."

"Your man – who's that?"

"My contact's name isn't important," Dillon hedged, "but he's associating with a name you might recognize – Mike LaBonte, an agent in the office. Apparently the guy's got himself sideways with the mob – a little debt issue."

"LaBonte," repeated Walsh, slowly. "We've never had an issue with him before, and I'd know. Interesting. So what did LaBonte have to say – did he have anything specific?"

"No. LaBonte did see Wilhelm afterward with the two agents assigned to the case, but he wasn't sure what they were talking about. Might be something, might not. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything."

"Nothing." Walsh was silent for a moment, thinking. He and Maxwell worked in the same office suite, and Jason was usually aware of Maxwell's schedule. He'd known Maxwell was out of the office on Friday, but he thought he remembered, vaguely, a reference to a vacation day. It was somewhat disturbing that he hadn't heard about this, but not out of the question. "I've been pulling up all the reports submitted from the Philly office – it sounds like they're just getting started, and not rolling too fast. They don't have anything yet, according to the reports."

Moran grunted. "Probably nothing then. I just thought you ought to know."

"Yeah," said Walsh. "Yeah, thanks. Keep me updated on what your man finds."

"You know it."

They hung up, and both of them were silent for a moment, wearing the same expression, pondering the same question, on opposite ends of the continent.

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Alan glanced up as Charlie pushed through the front door, followed by Don. His oldest was carrying a case that looked unfamiliar, but it was Charlie who drew Alan's radar. He looked pale, bedraggled, and miserable, a contrast to Don's showered and clean-shaven appearance.

Charlie shot him a glance in return, aiming for casual, but exuding something else that looked at least in part like guilt. His demeanor reminded Alan of the day he'd left his new bicycle in the street as a child, and it got crushed by a delivery truck which had pulled up to the curb. His treasure was gone, and he knew it was his fault. Then, as now, Alan felt both irritated and sorry for him. Pity triumphed as Charlie spoke.

"Hi Dad. Did anyone call?" Charlie delivered it with feigned casualness, but Alan knew what, or who, prompted the question. Larry had called earlier looking for Charlie, and had mentioned his son's argument with Amita.

"Just Larry," he replied. "He said he'd call you back." Charlie gave a nod, trying to look disinterested, but Alan saw the disappointment in his face, the slump in his posture.

"I'm going to get a shower." Charlie glanced at Don. "I won't be long."

"Take your time," replied Don. His eyes followed Charlie up the stairs, mainly to avoid looking at Alan. His father had lifted the paper again, but Don knew his sharp eyes missed nothing, at least as far as his sons were concerned.

"You two must have been out late last night," remarked Alan mildly.

Don shrugged. "Not really. We got a bite to eat, hung out over at my place." He paused, and glanced at his father, who appeared safely engrossed in the grocery circular. "He uh, maybe had a couple too many. Not that many," he amended hastily. "He didn't get sick or anything. He's just feeling less than stellar this morning." Damn, Eppes, quit talking, he told himself. Not for the first time, he thought that Alan would be good in the interrogation room. His father had hardly said anything; his detached silence was enough to invoke diarrhea of the mouth.

Alan grunted at a photo of impossibly large raspberries. "Can't say he does that too often. Is something bothering him?"

"Uh," Don managed, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably, and glancing at the stairs.

Alan shot him a sharp glance, and looked back at his paper. Interesting, he thought. His sons had closed ranks against him; Don was obviously trying to guard Charlie's secret. There had only been one period in their lives when they'd done that – when Don was around ten or eleven, and Charlie five or six. Since then, it seemed that they hadn't been close enough to confide in each other, or at any rate, they hadn't chosen each other over their parents when it came to discussing private matters. Until now. It was a little disconcerting, Alan had to admit, but he told himself, a bit smugly, that he still had the upper hand. Father still knew all. Or at least, he could make them think he did. He looked at his paper nonchalantly, and offered, "Other than his fight with Amita, I mean."

Don looked at him, a bit taken aback. Apparently his father was not only an interrogator par excellence, he knew the answers to his questions before he asked them. "How did you know?"

"Larry."

A bit of relief crept into Don's expression. "Well, if you bring it up, make sure he knows I didn't tell you."

Alan lowered the paper, and looked at him directly. "Larry seemed to think it was a hell of an argument."

Don grimaced. "Yeah, I heard some of it." He sighed and shook his head. "It didn't sound good. It sounded like she's broken things off, at least temporarily. She's pretty ticked off that he started consulting again, and didn't tell her." He declined to mention that they hadn't been spending the evenings together, but Omniscient Al had apparently picked up on that too.

"I noticed she hasn't been over much," sighed Alan. "I told him he needed to talk to her about it." He shook his head with aggravation. "He's so damn stubborn."

It was another revelation when, instead of the "tell me about it," he'd been expecting, Don jumped to Charlie's defense. "Yeah, well, he's been through a hell of a lot lately. I'm not saying what he did was right, but it's understandable."

It was Alan's turn to stare, but he caught himself quickly, turning back to his paper with another grunt, as Don made his way toward the kitchen. "What's in the case?"

"Charlie's new pistol," Don replied. "We were going to go to the shooting range, but maybe we'll do that tomorrow. I don't think his hands are too steady today. I'm just going to show him how to load and clean it." He pushed through the door.

Alan had lowered the paper at the comment and stared with a bemused expression at nothing. His youngest son had just lost a girlfriend, and acquired a firearm. He was starting to sound more like his older brother every day, and Alan wasn't quite sure he liked it. He had a funny, sad nostalgic feeling in the pit of his stomach, the same one he got when he looked at their baby pictures. He sighed, shook his head, and looked back at the paper, observing that the grocery prices, like life, seemed to be spiraling out of control.

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End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Thanks to you loyal reviewers, I appreciate it._

**Chapter 6**

Don ended up spending the night at Charlie's house. He was glad for the company, even as morose as it was. Charlie moped by the phone for most of the day, although Don managed to divert his attention for a while to learn how to load and clean his new pistol, a compact semi-automatic Smith & Wesson, with a sleek brushed-silver finish and a black grip. It was now Sunday, and they had just arrived at the target range, and geared up with hearing protection in a practice station.

Charlie stared at the target disinterestedly as Don explained some of the finer points of positioning. "Two hands are always better for stability, in a raised position so you can sight down the barrel. Bent knees keep you more stable also. I know you've shot a rifle before, but a pistol is much harder to aim and control. The closer the range, the better chance you have of hitting your target."

Charlie grimaced, and Don paused for a moment, looking at him. "You're really not into this, are you?"

Charlie sighed; then gave him an apologetic look. "It's one thing to shoot at a target. I'm really not all that keen at pointing one of these things at a human being."

Don's mouth twisted. "You might have a different opinion if that person's bent on doing you harm."

Charlie looked doubtful. "I suppose – but when it comes down to it, I'm just not sure if I could go through with it, no matter what. I don't know how you do it."

He regretted the words as soon as he saw the dark look pass over Don's face. "If you think it's easy to shoot someone, Charlie, trust me, it's not. I won't kid you; it's not something you get over right away, if ever. But if that someone is trying to kill you, it beats the alternative. Hopefully you'll never have to find out, but you've got the thing now; don't you think it makes sense to at least learn how to use it?"

Charlie looked up at him, a bit abashed. The fact was, he could never refuse Don anything – whom was he kidding by his reluctance? His brother knew a lot more about this than he did, and Charlie was sure he had his best interests at heart. Don was probably right, he conceded, he needed to focus. He reached carefully for the pistol. "Okay, so I hold it this way?" He gripped the butt of the pistol, placed his other hand so it supported the first, and faced the target.

Don looked at the hand position, and nodded. "Yeah. Now bend your knees a bit, straighten your arms, and sight down the pistol at the target. Take a deep breath to steady yourself, and then let it out. Shoot on exhale, just as you did with the rifle. It helps if you tighten your stomach muscles at the end…" He broke off; frowning as he looked at Charlie's shaking arms. Did this disturb him that much? he wondered. Or was his brother still feeling the effects of the alcohol two nights ago? "Try to hold it steady."

Charlie's face was pinched. "I'm trying – it's my shoulder – I can't lift it this high in this position."

Don paused, taken aback. He had nearly forgotten about Charlie's shoulder injury – his brother rarely had to lift his arm that high for everyday activities – at least those activities that Don could see. "Okay, lower your arms again." He thought for a moment. "We can try it one of two ways. One is to hold it one-handed, and try to sight down your arm. The other is to bring your arms up to a lower point, but bend your elbows to bring the gun up closer to your line of sight. We'll do both, and see which works better for you. Try the bent arms first."

Charlie nodded, and bent his arms. The position did allow him to lower his elbows, while keeping the pistol up near his line of sight. He squeezed the trigger, tentatively, and started a little as the pistol bucked in his hands, with a sharp crack. He'd known there would be recoil, but it still felt odd when the pistol jumped, as if it was a live thing. He worked on steadying his hands, and aimed again.

Don watched, eyes narrowed, as his brother took several shots at the target. Even at the lower arm level, Charlie still favored that side, and the shoulder drooped a bit, pulling his aim off. When they examined the target, Don could see the initial shots were all low and to the left. Charlie had tried to compensate as he went along, but was woefully inaccurate. He was actually better; it turned out, at shooting one-handed, sighting down his good arm. It wasn't something Don would have recommended for a beginner, and truthfully, Charlie's aim was still poor, but it was obviously more accurate than his two-handed attempt.

"Okay, now, I want you to practice something for me," Don said, as they put up a new target. "You're tight, and you're trying to rush things. Make each shot deliberate, nice and slow. Even in an emergency situation, you're better off thinking that way. It's better to take an extra second or two and get a good shot off, than to waste four or five with wild ones. Take some deep breaths."

The advice apparently worked; Charlie's next target was much better; in fact better than Don would have expected of most beginners. Charlie, though, was frowning. "I did a lot better when I came out with you the first time, on the sniper case."

"You were shooting a rifle then," Don pointed out. "That's always much more accurate at distance. Plus, you're shooting one-handed. For a pistol, this is actually pretty good."

Charlie's face brightened a little. "Really?"

Don grinned back at him. "Really. Try a few more."

After several rounds, Don could see that Charlie's efforts were actually starting to deteriorate, as his arm tired. He examined the last target. "Okay, I think that's enough for today."

Charlie stared at it, his forehead puckered. "I think I'm getting worse, instead of better."

"That's normal," said Don lightly. "You're using muscles in your wrists, arm, and hand that you don't normally use, and you're getting tired. Happens to everyone. You have to remember, you probably won't be shooting at something as far away as this target." He clapped a reassuring hand on Charlie's back and smiled at him.

Charlie's frown relaxed a little, but he still looked doubtful. "Yeah, I suppose."

They packed up and trudged back to the SUV, and Don felt a twinge of sympathy as he looked at Charlie's gloomy face. He had a good idea what was on his brother's mind, and it was confirmed as soon as they got in the car, and Charlie spoke.

"Do you think she called?" The words were delivered without much hope, and Charlie didn't even look at him as he said them, instead staring bleakly out through the windshield.

"I don't know, Buddy," Don replied softly. "Let's head back and find out."

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Monday afternoon, SAC Pete Wilhelm leaned forward expectantly, elbows on his knees, and faced his agents, Brad Decker and Steve Zuckerman. The D.A., Isaac Shaw, had been tied in to the conference room by speakerphone, the volume turned low, the door shut. This particular room was relatively soundproof, and windowless; Wilhelm had picked it for that reason.

"So how's our consultant doing?"

Decker and Zuckerman exchanged glances, and Decker spoke. "I don't know. Not good, I don't think. He was freaking out a little when we left him."

Shaw's voice came from the speakerphone. "He's not on site?"

Wilhelm addressed the phone. "No. We're keeping this low profile, at Maxwell's request. We don't want people seeing him coming in and out of the office. We've got him holed up in a little office downtown, a backroom of a store we use as a front. We four, and the man we've got stationed there with him right now, are the only ones who know he's on this job."

"Who is he again?" asked Shaw.

"Name's Professor William Koslowski, from Philadelphia U." Wilhelm turned back to Decker. "Freaking out how?"

Decker grimaced. "I don't know – he seems a little overwhelmed by all of the data, and the timeline we're giving him. He says he could develop something, but not within the timeframe we're asking. He's still working on it, but he was a little upset when we left."

Zuckerman snorted. "A little! The guy was wearing a hole in the floor in front of the computer. He paces, then taps on the keyboard, and paces again. And he's talking to himself. He'll wear himself out or go nuts before he gets anywhere."

"We need to get him some help." Wilhelm thought for a minute, and addressed the phone. "What about Dr. Eppes?"

Shaw's voice came back at him, crisp and decisive. "No way. We can't have him do this – the judge will throw it out, just like in L.A."

"I'm not saying have him _do_ it," responded Wilhelm. "We'll still have Koslowski do the actual work. Eppes can just show him _how_ he did it, what equations he used, or whatever it is they do. Koslowski can just apply it to his data – he'll do the work, and the testifying."

The phone was silent for a moment; then Isaac spoke. "Yeah, I don't see how they could argue with that. First of all, no one would necessarily know that Eppes participated, but even if they found out and we had to disclose, we could still maintain he didn't do any of the actual analysis. That could work. We need to keep him just as low profile as Koslowski, though."

Wilhelm looked at Decker and Zuckerman. "Not a problem. You two make arrangements – I want you on a Bureau jet to L.A. as soon as possible."

"Okay," came Isaac's voice. "I gotta run – anything else?"

"Yeah, Isaac, hold up for a minute – I've got a question on another case." Wilhelm nodded a dismissal at his agents. "You guys can go – line up your flight and we'll talk details later."

Out in the bullpen, Mike LaBonte lazily leaned back and watched as Decker and Zuckerman came around the corner from the conference room and headed toward the break area. Zuckerman was carrying his coffee mug, and as they turned into the entrance, LaBonte rose, snagging his own cup. He made his way across the office, trying to force himself not to rush, and stopped outside the doorway, pretending to inspect the inside of his cup, rubbing at a non-existent spot inside the rim. Zuckerman's voice was quiet, but LaBonte could make it out.

"I don't get what this consultant's doing for us, anyway. Seems like a waste. We could do the same thing by bringing in the whole team and having them dog these leads."

LaBonte could almost see the shrug; it was reflected in Decker's voice. "Not our call, man. Plus, it supposedly helped on the other case. You gotta admit; there are hundreds of transactions there, maybe thousands. It's probably a lot faster once the guy figures it out."

His voice increased in volume slightly, and LaBonte knew they were heading out of the break room. He turned to go in, and passed them with a nod as they came through the doorway.

"Hey, Mikey," said Zuckerman with a grin. "How's it goin'?"

LaBonte grimaced. "The usual, man, the usual." He put his head down, and headed into the break room.

Three hours later, at around six p.m., he left work. Right at the scheduled time, he pulled into the gas station in Exton, parking next to his contact's car. He got out of his vehicle, and slid into the passenger seat.

Jack O'Brien looked at him with a bland, lazy expression, which somehow was more threatening than a scowl. "So LaBonte, what's the story? Tell me you got something today."

"You got my money?"

O'Brien pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket, and handed it to him, with look of distaste. "You better hope for your sake you earned this, or you're not getting another chance to earn more."

"I got something," retorted LaBonte. "I overheard Decker and Zuckerman today. They've got a consultant on the case. Sounds like he's going through data, transactions, maybe writing a computer program or something."

"Who is it?"

"They didn't say. It doesn't sound like he's gotten very far, though. Zuckerman said something about being further ahead if they ran down the leads themselves."

O'Brien grunted. "You haven't seen him? The consultant?"

"No. He could be working downstairs, but he's definitely not up in the offices."

"Okay. Try to find out who and where he is, and see if you can get updates somehow on how he's doing. We need this - like yesterday. Get your ass in gear. Tomorrow night's meeting place is at the Denny's in West Chester, 7:30 p.m."

LaBonte nodded, his mouth tight, but restrained the sharp response that hovered on his lips. He climbed out of the car, straightened his jacket with a shrug of his shoulders, and strolled toward the gas station for a cup of coffee he didn't need, as O'Brien pulled away.

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Don pulled the door open to his apartment building Monday evening, wearily. It was around seven, and had been a long day. Things were looking up a bit; Charlie had made good progress on the Marciano tax fraud case, and the noose around the mobster's neck was tightening nicely. Just a bit more on their end to clean up; and they could go for an arrest warrant. He stopped to open his mail slot, only half-noticing the UPS truck that had pulled up outside. The driver approached the door with a medium sized box, and Don stepped over to let him in.

"Thanks," said the man, glancing at the name on his package. His eyes followed Don as he turned back toward his mail slot and locked it, and then he looked down at his package again, with a flash of recognition. "I see your apartment number – are you Don Eppes?"

Don turned. "Yeah."

"This is for you then." The man handed it to him with a grin. "Saved me a trip. Thanks."

Don took the package with a bemused look, and murmured, "No problem," as the man turned and trotted back out to his truck. He frowned in confusion. The box was light, about a foot square, and the label indicated it was from a sporting goods manufacturer. He turned and headed up the stairs, pondering. He'd been looking at a catalogue from one lately, but it wasn't this company, and he didn't order anything anyway. Had to be some kind of mistake.

His mind ran idly over the weekend as he made his way down the hall, and stopped to unlock his door. He'd stayed at Charlie's for dinner the night before, and headed back to his apartment, leaving his brother stewing over whether to try to call Amita or not. He knew Charlie was looking for some guidance there, but he'd bowed out of that discussion; he hardly felt qualified to give relationship advice with his track record. Instead, he settled for lending a sympathetic ear.

In spite of Charlie's predicament, the weekend had done Don a world of good. The time he'd spent with Charlie, their conversation, had been easy, relaxed, infused with a casual closeness that Don had once thought they'd never have. It made coming back to his apartment a much easier prospect than it had been before the weekend started. Work had gone well that day too; the only disturbing thing about the day was that Charlie had called to talk late in the afternoon, and had said Amita was still refusing to see him. Don could feel his disappointment, his anxiety through the line, and it left a residue of unease, as he pushed through the door and set down his mail.

Mild curiosity took over as he glanced again at the box, and he stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, returning and slicing through the packaging tape. It had to be a mistake; he'd more than likely be sending this back, he thought, as he opened the flaps.

His first reaction was to recoil instinctively, as the snake shot out of the box, directly toward his face.

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End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N - Thanks for the reviews. The action is going to start to pick up ..._

**Chapter 7**

Tuesday morning, Megan eyed the suspect, a man named Joey 'the Moose' Muccino, through the one-way glass, as Colby and David put him through an unusually intense grilling. After all, the man had nearly managed to kill their SAC the night before. That SAC was standing next to her, his brow furrowed.

"So how did they run him down?"

Megan glanced at him with a slightly amused expression. "The guy's not a rocket scientist, by any means."

Don smiled back at her. "And you should know."

She colored a little, and her grinned widened. "There was a robbery at a pet store on Saturday evening. Surveillance cameras caught a picture of the man, but it was dark and the image wasn't great. LAPD didn't have a lot to go on – they figured this was a lost cause; that most of the pets would be sold on the black market. That is, until the snake showed up."

"How'd they know it was the same snake?"

"Black mambas are not generally indigenous to the L.A. area," she said dryly. "When we told them you were working the Marciano investigation, they immediately narrowed their lists of suspects to Marciano's associates, and Joey Muccino came up as a match to the figure in the video." Their eyes turned toward the scowling brute in the interrogation seat, unaware of the figure that had stepped quietly behind them.

"So tell me, how did you manage to get hold of it before it bit you?" asked Megan.

Don shook his head. "Instinct, I guess. It shot out of the box, and I jerked my head back and grabbed at the same time, and just flung it across the room."

"Flung what across the room?" Charlie's voice came from behind them, and they turned to see an anxious face, and wide eyes.

"Nothing, Charlie. Just a snake. It was a pitiful attempt at a scare tactic." Don spoke soothingly.

Megan murmured. "I'd say it was a little more than a scare tactic."

Charlie licked suddenly dry lips. "What kind of snake?"

Don exchanged a glance with Megan. "A black mamba. It was nothing, Charlie -."

"Nothing! A black mamba was nothing? That's one of the deadliest snakes in the world!" protested Charlie, blanching. "When did this happen? Why didn't you say something?"

"Last night, and I didn't say anything for just this reason," replied Don, with exasperation. "Don't go getting all freaked out about this, now, and do me a favor – don't tell Dad. He's been through enough with us lately – and anyway nothing happened. It was a stupid stunt, and it's over. What are you doing here, anyway?"

Charlie was staring at the man in the interrogation room, his face still pale. "I finished up my analysis. Everything's there – I think you'll have plenty to hang Marciano with." His face darkened. "And I hope you do."

Less than an hour later, Muccino caved, admitting Marciano had told him to come up with a rattlesnake from a dealer in the desert, but that he'd decided to hit the exotic pet store, which was closer, instead. With that, and Charlie's analysis, they had all they needed to put Marciano away for an extended stay. To add to it, there was an arrest warrant for the pet storeowner for selling illegal exotics – just icing on the cake, as Colby put it. Things were looking up, Don thought to himself, as he settled at his desk with a well-deserved cup of coffee. Things were looking up.

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Jason Walsh sat at his office desk at FBI headquarters, tapping a pencil, his mind spinning. He suddenly reached for his phone, but instead of dialing, he picked up a paper knife and pried off the faceplate, lifting it carefully from the keys. Nothing. Frowning, he replaced it, and rose, following the phone cord with his eyes until it disappeared behind a file cabinet. He stepped toward the cabinet, and placing the paper knife on top, carefully slid it out from the wall. Using the paper knife as a screwdriver, he removed the wall plate, and sucked in a sharp breath. There it was- a tap on the phone line in his own office – irrefutable evidence that he was being watched. He had been suspicious for days, and that suspicion had been growing to an unbearable level. All of it had been adding up - Maxwell's clandestine visit to Philly, the director's quiet redirections of conversation when Walsh gently tried to probe – Maxwell had never left him out of the latest investigations before. Now Jason knew – he _was_ the latest investigation.

The thought brought a surge of panic, and his hands shook as he replaced the plate. Thankfully, he never contacted Dillon Moran from the office phone, or his home phone, for that matter. He had received one call from Moran last Sunday on his cell phone, but he and Dillon corresponded for the most part on disposable cells from outside locations. His mind raced frantically back over that Sunday call, wondering if there was a bug in his home office that might have picked up his end of the conversation. To his recollection, his piece of the discourse had been fairly innocuous – he had mentioned LaBonte's name, but not the context. If anyone had been listening in, they might think it was merely referral to an internal control investigation.

No, he more than likely hadn't incriminated himself yet, or they would have been there with an arrest warrant by now. If Dillon's computer man did his job, there would soon be no evidence at all to tie him to Moran and his man in Philly, Patrick Conaghan. The revelation that SAC Wilhelm had a consultant secretly assigned was most definitely cause for concern, however. He and Moran had agreed the day before that it warranted putting surveillance on Dr. Eppes, which Dillon had arranged immediately.

Walsh moved the cabinet back into place, and grabbing his jacket, stepped out of his office. He told the receptionist outside that he was heading out for lunch, with a glance toward Maxwell's office door. It was shut, and the very sight invoked an image in Walsh's mind, an image that spoke of threat and secrecy.

It was November, and chilly, but he parked his car at a nearby park and walked away from it, pulling out his cell phone, and dialing. "Can you talk?"

"Just a minute," responded Moran. Jason could hear movement on the other end, and Dillon's voice came over the line. "I stepped outside. What's up?"

"They bugged me," said Jason. "I got a goddamn tap on my office line. Did you get a man on Eppes?"

Dillon's stomach twisted uncomfortably. This was a serious development for both of them. "Yeah. He's still right here in L.A. Whoever's working on this in Philly isn't him."

Jason pursed his lips. "That's good, but we need to keep an eye on him. If they have a problem with this consultant for some reason, they may still go to him."

"I can arrange a problem," replied Dillon, "if we can find out where their consultant is. We got LaBonte working on it."

"How's your computer guy doing?"

"He's almost halfway through it. We need to get our hands on those tax records, pronto."

"Already done," said Jason quietly. "I had them lifted a week ago, and your man has the electronic copies. As soon as he's finished, we'll replace the hard copies with his modified versions." He paused. "I've got vacation coming up – I put in for it awhile ago. I usually go golfing with some buddies the same week every year. I'm taking the vacation – I don't want to arouse suspicion, but instead of the golf trip, maybe we should meet."

"What if they check your plane tickets?"

Walsh smiled; a dry grimace. "They can go ahead. They're for L.A. – we were going to play Lakeside and San Gabriel in L.A., and take a drive up the coast to Pebble Beach. I can play sick or something, skip the Pebble Beach part."

Moran's response was just as dry. "How convenient. Yeah, you're right – it might be good if we meet."

There was a brief silence; then Dillon spoke again. "Well, for now we're doing all we can. We need to get to that consultant, slow them down a bit, and we should be home free. Let me know what you decide about the trip, and in the meantime just sit tight."

Walsh snorted. "Not like I have a lot of choice there. I gotta go." He flipped the phone shut, and on the way back to the office stopped and picked up a sandwich for which he had no appetite. Maxwell was stepping out of his office as Jason came back in to the outer reception area.

"Dave," said Walsh, with a cool smile and nod of his head.

"Jason," returned Maxwell, with an enigmatic smile of his own.

They passed in the vestibule without another word.

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The phone rang, and Don glanced at the clock as he leaned forward to grab it. Wednesday, 11:30 a.m., and it was Charlie. They had talked about going to lunch, but Charlie hadn't been certain yet if he could – he'd taken time off for a doctor's appointment that morning.

"Hey, Buddy."

"Can you talk?"

"Yeah. How'd your appointment go?"

Hesitation. "Good. Really good, in fact. The doctor said strength-wise, I'm doing way better than expected. We looked at the scans and he pointed out some areas of scar tissue, which he believes is the main reason my mobility is limited. He thinks he can alleviate a lot of the tightness with surgery- he said I would probably regain most of my range of motion."

Don grinned into the phone. "That's great – did you expect to hear that?"

"Actually, no, it was something of a surprise." So were the two agents from Philadelphia sitting in his office, Charlie thought to himself. "Look, I know we talked about lunch. Is there any way you could meet me here?"

"Yeah, sure. Noon?"

"Yeah, that's good."

A half hour later, he was standing in the doorway of Charlie's office, brought up short by the two suits. One of them had stepped forward respectfully, extending a hand. "Agent Eppes, I'm Agent Brad Decker from the Philly office. This is Agent Zuckerman. We'd like to discuss something with you and your brother."

Don glanced at Charlie, who sat quietly behind his desk, with an odd expression on his face that Don couldn't quite place. Anxiety? He stepped into the office and closed the door behind him.

The agents moved over to some chairs pulled up to Charlie's desk and sat, but Don ignored them, choosing instead to lean against Charlie's desk with his arms crossed, placing himself between the agents and his brother. He looked down at them from his vantage point, and they shifted a bit uncomfortably under his gaze. "What's this about?"

Decker spoke. "Dillon Moran. We need some help on the investigation into his Philadelphia area operations. We were hoping your brother could come out to Philly to assist us."

Don shook his head, and behind him, Charlie cleared his throat. "I told them my involvement didn't work out so well in the L.A. case."

"Actually, it did work out well," said Don evenly. "We took down nearly two dozen meth labs." He shot a glance behind him, catching Charlie's flush, and the look of quiet gratitude. "Charlie's right, though, the judge had a problem with his involvement in the Moran case. A minor thing, really, just a little kidnapping and attempted murder, but the judge seemed to think it was an issue."

Decker seemed unperturbed by the sarcasm. He was solid, good-looking, and clean cut, and reminded Don just a bit of Colby with darker hair. "We're aware of that. We already have a consultant lined up to the do the work – we just want Dr. Eppes to show him how. The guy could probably do it on his own, but not in the timeframe we need – we just need to give him a jump-start."

"So why are you involving me? Charlie makes his own decisions."

Zuckerman spoke up. He was lean, tough looking, with a street feel to him that was emphasized by his middle-class Jersey accent. "Two reasons. One, we could use your input too. Any dope you have on the way the meth labs operated, how they pushed the drugs – stuff your office uncovered during their investigation. Two, this operation is under wraps. No one's supposed to know he's out there or what he's doing. It always helps to have someone on the home end to assist with the story. Plus, I imagine he'd tell you anyway."

Don's eyes narrowed. "So why the secrecy?"

Zuckerman exchanged a glance with Decker, who spoke. "We think there's someone from the Bureau involved."

Don's brow furrowed. "Who?"

"We're not at liberty to say, sir. The investigation is being tightly controlled. Zuckerman and I are the only agents on it, and we report directly to our SAC, Pete Wilhelm. He reports up through A.D. Norris directly to Maxwell on this. The only other people in on it are the consultant, the D.A., and a couple of cop bodyguards from Philly P.D."

Zuckerman added, "It goes without saying that neither of you can talk about this outside this group. Your A.D.'s okay – Maxwell's calling him today, if he hasn't already. Other than that, no one should know."

Charlie spoke up. "In the L.A. case, they doctored tax records and other legal documents to erase evidence. If they've done that already, we may be too late."

Decker grinned. "We'd heard that was an issue. One of the first things we did was to make hard copies of any records regarding Moran's businesses, including tax records, and file them in a safe place. We've got everything we need in terms of data – we just need to find the connection to Moran's associate, whoever it is."

Don looked at them. "When do you need a decision?"

"We flew out in a Bureau jet." Decker looked at Charlie. "We'd like you to come back with us this evening – we'll give you the afternoon to make arrangements here and to pack."

"I don't understand why he can't work it from here," Don protested.

Charlie spoke up quietly. "It will be a lot easier to do this in person, Don, and look at what their consultant has. I'm sure it won't take that long."

Don turned his head, and looked at him, then back at the agents. "Can you give us a minute?"

"Certainly," replied Decker, and they rose and slipped quietly out the door.

Don pulled himself away from the desk, and sat in a chair, facing Charlie across the desk. "Charlie, I don't know if this is such a hot idea."

Charlie held his gaze. "It sounds like they have it well under control. I don't see a lot of risk here."

"There's obviously some risk, if they're assigning bodyguards. Plus, you're already known to Moran. He may have someone watching for you in Philly."

Charlie sighed. "Look, I know you're trying to watch out for me, and I appreciate that. Plus, this isn't the best time for me to tackle this from a personal standpoint."

Don nodded, knowing he was referring to Amita. "So don't go. They can get someone else."

Charlie shook his head and looked at him earnestly. "Don, we both know they'll be light years ahead if they use me – I already have the search algorithms written. I can probably crash through this with their consultant in a day or two. Besides, Moran wiggled out of this the first time – don't you want to get him?"

Don stared back at him. There was a flash of something - a grim conviction in Charlie's eyes - that he'd never seen before, and he wondered if it was the same expression he wore when he was bearing down on a particularly heinous perp – a fierceness, a simmering anger, maybe even a little vindictiveness. He had to admit, he would love to see Dillon Moran behind bars – but not if it meant the slightest danger to Charlie. He sighed and shook his head, but before he could say anything, Charlie continued.

"I'm going. That's all there is to it. I don't even need to come up with a story for Dad – he's leaving this evening for that architecture conference in Tampa."

"I forgot about that," Don said slowly. "So he's going, then."

"Yeah, he'd told Stan he wasn't sure about it when everything was going on with us, but now that things have settled down, he finally decided to go with him." Charlie grimaced. "I pushed him a little. He needs to get out. He leaves tonight – I'll just take off after he does." He looked at Don. "The only thing I'm worried about – other than Amita – is you."

Don raised his eyebrows. "Me?"

"Yeah, you know – the snake thing – this case with Marciano."

Don snorted. "That's a done deal, Charlie. We got the arrest warrant, and rounded him up. He won't be trying anything again."

Charlie rose, looking unconvinced. "Yeah, well, anyway, be careful."

Don stood and their eyes met. "Yeah, I will. You too. It's too bad you don't have the license to carry a concealed weapon yet. You could have taken your pistol."

Charlie made a face. "That's okay. And don't worry, I won't be needing it." He glanced at his watch, and they both began to move toward the door. "I guess we missed lunch. Raincheck?"

Don grinned, and gave Charlie's back a light slap. "You bet. When you get back. I'll have my people call your people."

They stepped out to find Decker and Zuckerman looking at them expectantly. "I'm going," said Charlie. "It'll be better if we leave after eight."

Decker nodded. "Good." They began to move down the hallway, and he looked sideways at Don. "Maybe we can meet with you this afternoon, get some detail on the meth lab bust. It'll have to be off site."

They rounded the corner, and Charlie stopped short. Don glanced up in time catch the flush and the slightly guilty look on his brother's face, and followed his gaze to see Amita. She was coming down the hall toward them, but her steps were faltering, and it looked as though both of them wanted to be anywhere but there.

As the group passed, Charlie was trailing, and Amita stopped. He came to a halt in front of her as she spoke, her eyes suspiciously moist. "Well, it looks like you've made your choice." The words were bitter, her voice shaky.

After days of fighting guilt, Charlie felt suddenly, unaccountably angry. When he replied his voice was low and calm, but it resonated with that anger. "I'm doing what I decided - four years ago - that I love to do. That hasn't changed for me. You knew I was involved with this when we started to date." He stepped around her. "You're the one who's made a choice, here."

Without a backwards glance, he left her in the hallway, staring after him.

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End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Dillon stood in the waiting area, trying to ignore the hair prickling on the back of his neck. The state-run facility for the criminally insane was a hellhole, one deeper than anything Dante could have imagined. High fences rimmed with barbed wire surrounded the grounds, through which visitors needed to be escorted, even though it was segregated from the prison yard. On the other side of an inner fence, he could see inmates shuffling in a dusty common area, wandering a large field devoid of anything other than parched grass. For the most part, they looked a docile bunch, doped up on whatever medications they were fed on a daily basis, wearing tracking bracelets on their arms, shuffling with vacant stares and repetitive mannerisms, tongue thrusts, head rolls. One of them stood in the yard, blissfully urinating and drooling, while another walked past him, gibbering to himself. His brother was in this place, Dillon thought, and his gut clenched. His brother was in this God-awful place.

The guard had walked him through two sets of security doors and into a waiting area. Another had been dispatched for Sean, who was on a different level of the building. It housed the worst of them – murderers, some of them serial killers – most found incapable of being tried by reason of insanity, a few, like Sean, who were awaiting trial, but judged to be too dangerous for a normal mental hospital. Not that Sean was insane – at least not since his withdrawal from meth. It had seemed a good idea at the time – to plead insanity. Looking at the place now, Dillon was not so sure.

The door opened, and he found himself staring at his brother. Even in the faded tan jumpsuit and the hobbling shackles, Sean looked physically so much better that Dillon was momentarily taken aback. It was brutally apparent how much the meth had contributed to Sean's decline, now that he was off it. His brother's eyes were focused, he looked rested; he'd gained some weight. He'd apparently stopped the incessant hair-pulling and it was beginning to grow back, and looked clean and neatly cut. The only thing to mar the picture, other than the trappings of prison, was the expression on his face. Sean looked desperate.

"Dillon," he said, almost choking on the name, and shuffled forward.

Dillon strode toward him and despite the guard's warning, clasped him in a hug. "Seanie-boy," he whispered. As the guard protested, he stepped back, and they took seats as directed.

He looked into Sean's tortured face. "You look good, Sean. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," replied Sean miserably. He looked into Dillon's eyes, pleadingly, and spoke in a voice low enough that the guards couldn't hear. "You got to get me out of this place, Dillon. I'll go to regular prison, I don't care. I gotta get out."

Dillon leaned forward, and spoke just as quietly. "I can't do that, Sean. They'll try you for the fireman's murder, and for attempted murder of the Eppes. You could get the death penalty."

At his mention of the name, Sean's face darkened. "I hate them," he whispered. "It's all their fault."

Dillon nodded, and his mouth twisted slightly in a grimace. "I know, Seanie," he whispered back. "I know."

The visit was pitifully brief, and a few minutes later, Dillon found himself outside in the parking lot, standing next to his car. A blast of wind blew a cloud of dust in his face, and he opened the car door and got in to escape it, still staring at the ugly concrete building, squatting like a beige monster in a sea of chain link. It was no place fit for a human, especially not a sane one. "What kind of life is that?" Dillon whispered to himself. He started the car, pulled slowly out of the lot, and headed down the bleak driveway, and as he reached the tree line and the facility and its grounds disappeared from view, a shudder ran down his spine.

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Wednesday evening, Don stood with his arms folded, and watched as Charlie plowed through the boxes in the corner of the basement. "What are you looking for?"

"Another medium-sized suitcase. Dad took the one I usually use. I think we've got another one here somewhere." Charlie straightened, and wiped a cobweb off his cheek. "I ended up telling him I was going out of town to a conference myself. That way he won't panic if he calls back here and doesn't get anyone."

"What did you tell Millie?"

"That I'm getting called out on a top-secret consulting job that I can't tell her about, and she isn't supposed to say anything."

"Charlie." Don's voice was disapproving, but he couldn't stifle a grin.

"What? What was I supposed to say? She knows I do that stuff. She won't say anything. It's not as if I told her what I'm doing or for whom, and besides, she's perpetuating the conference myth. Even Larry thinks I'm going to discuss dispersion calculations for nano-particles in metal plating." Charlie pulled another box from the stack and set it aside. "Huh."

"What?"

"Back there against the wall. I forgot we had that – the little safe. It might be a good place to stick papers in while I'm gone."

"You can put your gun in it, too," Don observed. "Guns are one of the first things taken in home thefts."

Charlie waded in between boxes toward the safe, and began pulling another one from the top of the stack. He had started to turn his torso a bit to hand it to Don, who had stepped forward, when Charlie suddenly froze. Before Don could grab the box, Charlie had dropped it, and was backpedaling away from the wall, so fast he backed right into Don.

Don grabbed him to steady him, and could feel the vibration running through his brother's body. "What? What is it?" He pulled Charlie backward, and eased in front of him, half-expecting another snake. Charlie's face was white, and he was staring toward a gap between the bottom boxes and the wall. As Don moved forward, he could see a blanket on the floor, several empty packages of crackers, and some water bottles. They'd just discovered where Sean Moran had made his home.

"_That's_ where he was," exclaimed Don softly. He surveyed the scene in front of him. "He pulled out the bottom boxes a little, and stacked the top ones over them all the way against the wall." The ruse had made it look like the pile was solid, but actually, there was a gap at the bottom. "I'll have to tell Colby." He turned and looked at Charlie, who was still pale, his eyes dark. "Are you okay?"

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck, shakily. "Yeah. It just, uh, startled me. I wasn't expecting it." He swallowed, looked away, and back again. "Sometimes I still feel like he's here, waiting to jump out again."

Don reached in and dragged the little safe away from the wall, and then hefted a suitcase out of a nearby box. "Come on, I've got your suitcase." He stepped over to Charlie and put an arm around him. "Why don't you go up and get packed?"

Charlie nodded and took the case. His eyes had lost their earlier conviction, and he seemed suddenly deflated as he made for the steps. Don watched him go, and looked back again at the nest by the basement wall. He'd get the crime lab to go through it while Charlie was gone – if Sean Moran was ever declared fit to stand trial, it could be added to the evidence. The mention of the drug addict brought back memories in a rush, and Don shifted uncomfortably. He suddenly wished he'd tried harder to talk Charlie out of helping out the Philly office; he'd had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach ever since the arrival of the agents that afternoon. He took a deep breath, trying to shake it off, and headed toward the stairs.

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Walsh felt the buzz of the disposable cell in his pocket. He was carrying two these days – he couldn't afford not to. One for Moran, one for everyone else. As he flipped it open, he glanced at the clock. It was 11:30 p.m. Wednesday evening and he was in his home study. His wife had just gone to bed; even his two teens were asleep – they had tests the next morning. Moran's voice came over the line. "Can you talk?"

"Yeah," replied Walsh. "Give me five – I'll call you back." He disconnected, and immediately headed quietly out of the study, grabbed his jacket, and let himself softly out of the front door. He'd done a search for bugs and hadn't found any, but he wasn't about to take chances. His front yard was large and filled with landscaping, most of it bare this time of year, but there was cover afforded by some large white pines, and he moved next to them, with a quick glance up and down the street. Empty. Satisfied, he redialed. "I'm here."

Dillon spoke tersely. "Dr. Eppes just left L.A. on a government jet. Unmarked, had a couple of suits with him, but we have no idea where there were headed or what agency the suits were from. They flew out of Burbank."

"What time was this?"

"Half hour ago, eight our time. The suits stopped in to see him at his office this afternoon, then came by this evening, picked him up, and took him to the airport. Don Eppes was there when they met this afternoon, and again tonight, but he stayed there."

Jason was silent for a moment, pondering the information. The feds already had another consultant lined up in Philly, so chances were good Dr. Eppes' departure had nothing to do with their case. Plus, Walsh had made sure through another contact that the D.A., Isaac Shaw, knew any work Eppes did would probably be disallowed. On the other hand, if the Feds had decided to use Eppes to speed up the investigation anyway, it would be disastrous. It was a risk they couldn't afford.

"We need to figure out where he went."

"I've got a couple of guys already on their way out to Philadelphia area airports, but if they're headed your direction, they could land anywhere in the Philly/Newark area – even New York. We can't cover them all. The best bet is to find the consultant in Philly – I've got LaBonte working on that. The way things are going, I think we need to take care of him anyway, even if Eppes doesn't show up there. It didn't sound like the guy was making a lot of progress, but we should err on the cautious side."

Walsh grunted his acknowledgment. "You're probably right. All right – look, I fly out tomorrow afternoon. Find someway we can meet safely while I'm out in L.A., and keep in mind you're probably being tailed."

Dillon snorted. "I know I am. I can ditch 'em anytime I need to. You need to worry about your own ass. Call me when you get in – I'll have something set up."

The line disconnected, and Walsh stood for a moment, silently, watching his breath rise in the cold night air, listening, watching. Finally, he turned, and went back into the house.

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Charlie accepted the cup of coffee from Pete Wilhelm the next morning, gratefully, and glanced around the kitchen. The Philadelphia SAC had insisted on putting Charlie up during his stay in Philadelphia, arguing that Charlie's credit card could be traced if he used a hotel. Of course, the Bureau could have reserved the room, so it was a feeble argument. Or perhaps not, Charlie reflected; an insider might be able to find out about such an arrangement. However, he suspected the real reason had to do with Wilhelm's desire to keep an eye on him. So early Thursday morning, he sat in the kitchen of Wilhelm's home, a modest two-story in the Philadelphia suburbs.

Last evening, he had occupied one of the three bedrooms on the second floor. The other was Wilhelm's and the third had been outfitted as an office – there was no family, apparently. Wilhelm looked to be around forty, a few years older than Don was, and the comparisons were undeniable. Bright, good-looking, obviously good at his job, and alone. Is this what Don was headed for? A lonely bachelor existence in a home that should have been filled with family? The thought made a lump rise in Charlie's throat.

"Coffee okay?" asked Wilhelm.

Charlie blinked. "Yeah, it's great. Hot." He sipped gingerly, as if to demonstrate.

Wilhelm studied the man in front of him. He was much younger than he expected, and his long hair and casual dress made him look younger yet. Pete had gotten background information from his agents after they'd met with Don Eppes, and he had details on what both men had been through recently. In spite of what must have been a horrific experience, and his work on many cases, some of which were certain to have been ugly, the young man still seemed to project an air of innocence, of naivety. Not as clueless to the real world as Koslowski, but still, without the sharp eyes and discerning manner of an agent. The intelligence in those eyes was unmistakable, but it seemed focused inward, trained on another world. But then, like Koslowski, Eppes was a math professor, and it made sense that both of them would be out of their element when dealing with dangerous men. It was his job to make sure they stayed whole and unharmed while they did whatever it was that they did. "You sure you don't want anything? Toast, even?"

Charlie smiled. "No, thanks. I'm not a big breakfast person." He liked his host well enough, but he was itching to be gone. The sooner he took care of this, the sooner he could get back home.

A little over a half hour later, they pulled into a parking lot behind a row of rather seamy-looking downtown buildings. Charlie couldn't help but notice that Wilhelm had taken a circuitous route to get there, and had communicated with agents or officers behind him more than once.

"We use this building as a front on occasion," Wilhelm informed him, as they made their way to a rear door. "The street side of the building houses a legitimate travel agency, and we have an office set up in the back. It's a safe setting, and you can work without disturbance. We have at least one Philly PD officer with you at all times, and going forward, they'll be handling most of your transportation. I came along this morning to introduce you, and to discuss the parameters of the case."

He rapped on the metal door, and after a pause, during which someone was presumably looking out through the small viewing aperture, it swung open, held by a burly-looking cop in uniform. "Morning, Andy," said Pete, and ushered Charlie in ahead of him, as Andy nodded at them.

They proceeded down a narrow hallway, and were met by Agent Decker. "Zuckerman's in with him," he said quietly to Wilhelm, jerking his head toward a room with an open door. Voices were floating out from it to the hallway, one quiet, one irritated. "He's not all that happy about this."

Charlie heard the irritated voice rise as they began to move toward the room. It was reedy and nasal, and the owner was obviously perturbed. "I told you guys I could do this – I just need more time than you're giving me."

Charlie could hear Zuckerman trying to placate the consultant as he moved into the doorway, and got a look at the thin, rather scruffy looking man, whose appearance was somewhat reminiscent of Woody Allen. The consultant had opened his mouth to reply, but stopped abruptly as he caught sight of Charlie over Zuckerman's shoulder. He stared, and the thick lenses in his glasses made his eyes appear even more bugged than they actually were. "Oh, my God," he exclaimed, and Zuckerman shot a confused look back over his shoulder. Willy pushed him aside, and made his way eagerly to the door, both hands outstretched. "Oh, my God," he exclaimed again. "Why didn't you tell me? Professor Eppes, it's such an honor, sir."

The small man grabbed Charlie's hand with both of his, and pumped it vigorously. "I'm William Koslowski, but call me Willy – you will call me Willy, right? I'm such an admirer of your work – the Eppes Convergence – I've been reading your papers – and of course, your book is a big hit on campus -,"

Charlie gently pried his hand out of Willy's grip and tried to interrupt the excited flow of words. "I'm pleased to meet you, Willy. Please, call me Charlie."

Willy flushed, and beamed. "Of course, of course." He took Charlie's arm, and steered him excitedly toward his laptop, nearly overrunning Zuckerman in the process. "Let me show you what I have so far. I can't believe they didn't tell me…"

Zuckerman shook his head, and grinning, strolled over to Wilhelm and Decker, standing outside the doorway. "So much for Willy being upset," he said in a low voice.

Decker snorted softly. "Christ, I thought he was going to pee his pants. It's like he's meeting some kind of rock star, or something."

A dry smile played on Wilhelm's lips. "In their world, he probably is. Come on; let's get a cup of coffee. We'll talk to them later when they come up for air."

They drifted down the hallway, and Zuckerman shot a glance at the two heads bent over the laptop, already immersed in an energetic discussion. He scratched his head, shook it again, and headed down the hall.

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End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: Sorry there was no post yesterday - the site wouldn't let me log in! Thanks for the reviews._

**Chapter 9**

Mike LaBonte chafed in the driver's seat, and drummed his fingers on the unfamiliar steering wheel. He was parked, the engine idling, on the street outside the FBI offices in a rental; his own car was in its usual spot in the parking garage. It was going to be tough enough not to get made while he shadowed Decker and Zuckerman, and he sure as hell didn't want them to recognize his car. So after coming into the office early that morning, he'd slipped out, saying to the others in the office that he was going down to the shelter to question possible witnesses to a drive-by shooting case he was working. Instead, he hailed a cab, went to the nearest car rental, and rented an SUV. He'd then driven it back and parked it on the street, putting a permit in the window that said it was a federal vehicle so he wouldn't have to feed the meter, and then headed for his own car.

He'd gone down to the shelter and questioned witnesses as he'd promised; and made it back in to the office before Decker and Zuckerman had even showed up. When they came in, they were accompanied by SAC Wilhelm, and LaBonte got the impression that they were all returning from the same place. He had no doubt that it was where the consultant was situated; he'd found out that the man was most definitely not anywhere in the FBI building.

The day had passed by with maddening slowness; Zuckerman and Decker showed no signs of going anywhere. Finally, late that afternoon, LaBonte saw Wilhelm pull Decker aside and speak to him quietly, and then Decker headed for Zuckerman's desk. LaBonte was immediately on his feet with his coffee cup, and he passed them just in time to hear Decker murmur something about 'checking their progress.'

He'd stopped in the break room to rinse out his cup, and immediately had left the office, ahead of the two agents. Now he was sitting in the black SUV, impatience exacerbating his already jangled nerves. This was risky, but he had no doubt that there was no other way to do it. He had to succeed; his contact, O'Brien, had made it clear the night before that the stakes had risen, and that a second consultant may have been called in. He'd given LaBonte the professor's picture, and made it clear that if LaBonte didn't find out the whereabouts and identities of the consultants, the deal was off. No more money – and he was still a long way off from covering his debt.

His head came up as Decker's car emerged from the parking garage. He threw the rental into gear, pulled the ball cap he'd donned a little lower, and pulled out smoothly behind them, two cars back.

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Jason Walsh sat, facing Dillon across a utilitarian wooden table in the warehouse. If he'd had any doubts as to the level of Maxwell's suspicions, he'd found out that afternoon. Upon landing in LAX, he'd immediately acquired a tail; two agents, a man and a woman. They'd posed as husband and wife, and had shadowed him through the airport. Upon exiting the terminal, he'd picked up another – a black sedan containing two male agents that trailed his rental car all the way to the hotel. There, he'd parked the rental and checked in, then promptly caught a cab for the shopping district in downtown Burbank. It was a tail's nightmare – thirty-four blocks of shops, restaurants and offices, some them interconnected. Jason had worked his way up through the ranks, and knew a thing or two about surveillance. Just for grins, he'd given them a hard time, ducking into and out of shops, buying a polo shirt at one for golfing, before he finally ended up at his destination promptly at 2:00 p.m. By pre-arrangement, he'd entered a café, walked straight through the back of it to a fenced-in patio, walked out through the patio entrance, and climbed in a waiting van on the other side of the fence. By the time the agents managed to make their way to the patio, he was gone, and on his way to the warehouse on the northeast side of L.A.

The warehouse, tucked away in a remote industrial park, wasn't Dillon's, but he knew of its existence from a business associate, and had taken the liberty of 'borrowing' it for a few days. According to a sign on the door, it was only operational on select mornings, and was closed starting Thursday at noon through the weekend. Two of Dillon's men drifted around the perimeter, keeping watch from the windows.

Dillon pushed a set of keys across the table. "These are for another rental, a silver G6 that we have left in a parking garage two blocks from your hotel. If we need to meet again while you're here, you can use that. They won't be looking for it."

Jason nodded. He was well aware that they were in a dire situation; their continued freedom hinged on whether or not LaBonte could find the consultant, and quickly. It was good to be prepared for any eventuality. "Any word from your man?"

"Not yet," admitted Dillon. Walsh could see the strain in the other man's face; it had been two years since they'd seen each other face-to-face, but Moran looked like he'd aged five. Walsh was certain he hadn't fared much better – both of them were feeling the effects of the crushing stress. Dillon continued. "I told him to tell LaBonte today was his last chance. If he didn't find them, we were cutting him off." He looked up at Jason. "I've got a private plane arranged if we need to leave the country in a hurry. You're welcome to join me."

Walsh's mouth twisted. "I'm still hoping it won't come to that."

Dillon nodded. "Me too. I'd hate to leave with Sean in that hellhole. Part of me wants to try to spring him, but after what happened with Tommy…"

He trailed off; and Walsh studied him. "So how hard would it be? To get him out of there?"

Dillon shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe not too bad, if you worked it right. You'd have to do it while they were outside – there's no way you'd be able to get anyone out of the building itself. They let 'em out sometimes, in a big yard about the size of a football field. It's got high barbed wire fence around it, and they have to wear a tracking bracelet when they're out there." He broke off and shook his head ruefully. "Hell, I don't know why I'm even talkin' about it. We're in enough trouble without taking that on." He changed the subject. "When do your golfing buddies get in?"

"Tonight. We're supposed to play Lakeside tomorrow, San Gabriel Saturday, and drive up to Pebble Beach Sunday, and play up there for three days. If I need to, I can come down with the flu or something, get out of some of it." He paused, as Dillon's phone rang.

Dillon flipped it open and listened intently, shooting a meaningful glance at Walsh. "It's Jack O'Brien," he said to Jason. "Yeah, Jackie, what do you have?"

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Mike LaBonte had finally struck pay dirt. He'd played the tail cautiously – Decker and Zuckerman were good agents, and from their maneuvering, he could tell they were watching for vehicles behind them. At one point, they stopped for food – takeout Philly steak sandwiches, and he was forced to drive past and pull over until they were on the road again. He trailed them all the way to a section on the edge of downtown, and it was there that he lost them. For a moment, he was devastated, but then he realized where he was. The Bureau had a front down in this area, he remembered, that they used from time to time – it was in the back of a travel agency. He was only two blocks from there, and he pulled the SUV around and headed for it. The agency sat in the middle of a row of smaller businesses on the city block; parking for them was behind the row of buildings, in the back.

He made for the corner and drove slowly down the block, and as the parking lots came into view, he scanned across them to the one behind the travel agency. Sure enough, Decker and Zuckerman were making their way from their vehicle to the back of the building, carrying the sack of sandwiches.

"Bingo," breathed LaBonte, and he felt a little flutter of excitement in his gut. He wondered what this would be worth to whoever it was who was fronting the money – maybe he'd get paid off in full tonight. He pulled the SUV around to the side street that ran behind the parking lots, pulled in two lots over behind a dry cleaner, and parked the SUV next to a truck, watching the door, which had now closed behind the agents. He slouched low in the seat, and examined the door. It was metal, and hard to tell from that distance, but it looked like it had a peephole. No windows on the back of the building, just aging brick, dark red and streaked with black. There was no good way to see inside.

It seemed like an eternity, but it was only about a half hour when the door opened again, and Decker and Zuckerman reappeared. They stopped in the doorway and turned, holding it open, and through the half-open door, LaBonte got a glimpse of a slight figure with dark curly hair in the opening. LaBonte could tell the man was speaking, and as the two agents listened for a moment, he checked the photograph. It had to be Eppes – there couldn't be two of them with hair like that. He looked up again as Decker stepped aside, and the outside light hit the smaller man's face, giving him a better view of it. Definitely Eppes. As Decker and Zuckerman stepped away, the professor retreated into the hallway, and a big cop reached out to pull the door shut, with a quick glance around the lot. LaBonte recognized him, too – a veteran Philly PD officer named Andy Goerke.

He waited until Decker and Zuckerman pulled out of the lot before he pulled out his cell phone and dialed Jack O'Brien. It was payday.

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Later that evening, LaBonte's elation had turned to fear and frustration. It was dark, around eight o'clock, and he was again at the lot with a bunch of thugs that O'Brien had called in. He'd met with O'Brien earlier that evening at his request, expecting to be paid off, to be done with this business. Instead, he'd found himself in deeper than he'd ever intended to be. A simple handoff of information had turned into a kidnapping, and possibly murder; and O'Brien had demanded that he participate. It grated against the principles that had made him choose law enforcement as a career, against his very soul, but he had no choice. Not only would he not receive the bulk of his money until after the job, but O'Brien had threatened to expose his gambling habit and tie-in to the mob if he didn't cooperate.

They needed him to gain access to the building. The travel agency was closed for the night, so they had to go through the back, and they wanted to take down the protection. The plan was for Mike to appear at the door, show his badge, and tell the cops he was there to escort the consultants home. If they bought it, he would simply load the professors into the SUV, and drive them to a holding location where they would be dealt with. If the cops balked for some reason, O'Brien's thugs would be waiting, and they would muscle their way in. In that case, they would have to shoot the officers and take the consultants by force. Either way, LaBonte was the man they were counting on to get the cops to open the door.

The lot was empty – the last of the businesses in the strip building closed at six. He waited until O'Brien's men took their positions, some along the wall behind the door, some behind a dumpster, took a deep breath, and walked toward the door. It was official – he was going to hell.

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Charlie stared at Willy's computer screen, tapping a pencil absently on the table in front of him as he leaned over Willy's shoulder. They'd made good progress that day; his search algorithm had already uncovered Moran's front businesses and the man who ran them, Patrick Conaghan – the Philadelphia equivalent of Lenny Angelo, Moran's man who ran the dirty side of his businesses. '_Willy's algorithm_,' he corrected himself mentally. After he'd shown Professor Koslowski what to do, Willy had constructed the algorithm and applied it successfully. Like Angelo, Conaghan ran a string of businesses and owned a number of suburban residences, where they would undoubtedly find meth houses. Again, the money was laundered through a local community center, a charitable organization. Although there were many more records associated with these businesses because they'd been in operation longer, the connection still wasn't difficult to find, knowing how the scheme had worked in L.A. No, the hard part was determining where the money went afterward.

The online tax records showed three accounts, but Moran had evidently already had someone get into the system and make alterations – all three accounts now showed up under Conaghan's name. Charlie wondered whether Patrick Conaghan knew he was being set up to take the fall – had he been threatened, like Angelo, or was he as yet unaware that he was now listed, at least in the tax documents, as the sole owner of the overseas accounts?

Charlie knew better; he and Willy had the original hard copy records, which showed the three accounts as offshore entries under three separate owners, which the offshore banks, protected by international law, refused to disclose. One of them had to be Conaghan, and one Moran, Charlie was sure. The question for which Dave Maxwell wanted an answer was; who was the third? Charlie knew he suspected one of his own people – how he'd come to that conclusion, he refused to say. Maxwell also refused to give them the name of _who_ he suspected – he wanted independent corroboration, he said. Irrefutable proof, unbiased by preconception. It was their job to find that proof, that connection.

To that end, Charlie had guided Willy in the construction of another algorithm, one that would search withdrawals from the accounts, and try to match them with expenditures or deposits in the Philly area, and then in the continental U.S. So far, the algorithm had come up with a large group of possibilities, but none of them fit the spending-withdrawal profile 100 percent. Charlie leaned back and sighed, and looked at Willy, who was hovering anxiously over the keyboard after typing in a change to the programming.

"Okay, what did I just do?" Willy asked.

"You just modified the algorithm to look worldwide," Charlie said. "Obviously, some of the spending has occurred outside U.S. borders."

Willy frowned. "Won't that give us too large a list of possibilities?"

Charlie shook his head. "Not necessarily. Remember, we need a perfect match, or close to it. There should only be one of them out there for each account."

Willy frowned. "Then why didn't we run this first?"

"It's a lot of data, and it will take a lot longer to run. I was hoping we'd get a hit sooner with the smaller search area. Unfortunately, it looks like we have to run the full data model."

Willy regarded him with awe. "You seem to have a lot of experience with this."

"I've done it a few times," Charlie admitted.

A voice from the doorway interrupted them. "Okay, boys." Andy's Goerke's gravelly, good-natured voice filled the small room. "Wilhelm just called. His agents are on their way to pick you up for the night. Better close up shop." He turned away, back down the hallway.

Willy regarded the screen. "Shouldn't we let this run?"

Charlie shook his head. "We can't leave it here tonight – they won't have a guard once we're gone. We'll fire it up first thing in the morning. Or if you want, you can try to run it at your place tonight. You know how to dial into the secure connection."

He turned away and began to pack away his own laptop, and Willy followed suit, closing his laptop down and zipping it into his case. As Charlie grabbed his case and turned, Willy spoke, almost shyly. "I have to say, Professor Eppes, it has been a remarkable day, and such an honor for me to work with you." He was beaming, his magnified eyes crinkling behind the thick lenses.

Charlie colored a bit. "Please, Willy, call me Charlie. You actually had a lot of good work done before I showed up. There's no doubt in my mind you would have arrived at the same solution." He could hear voices down the hall. "Come on, I think they're here." He smiled, holding out an arm to usher Willy through the door first, when a loud thump and a curse, followed by grunting, made him freeze. He grabbed a startled Willy by the shirtsleeve and pulling Koslowski behind him, crept out the door, and peered down the darkened hallway toward the back exit, his heart suddenly pounding.

The sounds of the scuffle were louder now, and as they reached the corner, a shot rang out, ear-punishing in the small space. Someone had hit the lights and the hallway was dark, but Charlie saw a large figure that looked like Andy go down in the doorway. Halfway down the hall, their other bodyguard, another Philly cop named Jerry, was assuming a firing stance, swearing, and squeezing off a round over Andy's body at a figure partially hidden by the open rear door. Charlie paused for a split second in shock, then grabbed Willy's arm and dragged him across the opening to a doorway on the other side that led to the front office, where the travel agency was located.

They could hear more shots behind them, and they burst through the door, Charlie still dragging a stumbling Willy through the front office. "Come on, Willy, we've got to get out of here!"

"Why, what's happening?" Willy half-sobbed, breathlessly. "I don't understand!"

They'd reached the glass front door, and Charlie fumbled with the deadbolt, shooting a panicked glance through the glass, and then behind him. "I don't either, but I know we've got to go!" The bolt clicked and he shoved the door open hard, which triggered an alarm, but he ignored it, taking off at a run down the sidewalk, Willy beside him, both them lugging their computer cases. That section of town was relatively deserted at night, but a car was approaching, and Charlie ran out into the street, one arm up, trying to flag it down. The driver, apparently alarmed, hit the gas and sped off, and Charlie hesitated just a moment in dismay, but the sound of more shots galvanized him into action again. "Come on," he yelled to Willy, and they charged across the street for the cover of an alley.

As they reached it, they heard the distant sound of sirens, and then closer, shouts. Charlie flung a quick look over his shoulder and his heart leapt into his throat as he saw men pour out of the entrance to the travel agency. "Run!" he gasped as they tore into the alley, a totally unnecessary command; Willy's feet were churning, and they pounded down it as fast as they could. Still, they were encumbered by their computer cases, their pursuers were gaining. Charlie hoped that the approaching sirens were for their benefit, but he also knew that the men behind them would reach them in seconds, well before any help could arrive. Another alley crossed theirs perpendicularly dead ahead, and as they reached it, Charlie turned left into it. Just around the corner he stopped, and grabbed Willy's arm, gasping, indicating a dark recessed doorway.

"You hide in there, and I'll draw them down the alley. When they're past you, sneak out and head the other way. You can't let them get that computer." Willy started to protest, but Charlie pushed him toward the doorway and took off, heading down an even darker stretch of alley. He could hear a shout behind him as his pursuers turned the corner, and he shot another glance over his shoulder, noting with mingled relief and terror that all of them were following – none had turned down the other branches, so Willy would have three clear options for escape. He turned his head around, just in time to stumble to a halt in dismay. In front of him was a section of chain link fence, eight feet high, spanning the alley.

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End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. The real action is dead ahead..._

**Chapter 10**

A little after five, Don leaned back in his seat and stretched. He glanced at the clock. It was a little after eight in Philadelphia, and he wondered how Charlie was doing. He'd call him when he got home that night, he decided. Maybe Dad, too. He sat back forward in his chair as Megan approached.

"Hey," she said, "we were thinking of stopping for a bite to eat. Want to come?" She grinned. "I promise; we have no ulterior motives this time."

Don grinned back. "You're sure about that?" he teased. "Who's 'we?'"

"Me, Colby, and David. The last time we went out, we agreed we should do it more often, remember?"

"Yeah," Don growled, with mock irritation. "I also remember you trying to sweet-talk me into letting Charlie consult for the team again."

Megan grinned, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "Worked, didn't it?"

Don's face relaxed into a smile, and he rubbed an eyebrow. "Yeah, it did." He looked up at her. "All right, where?"

"How about Tex-Mex – Juan Carlos'?"

"Okay," said Don, "That sounds good." And it did, he reflected as Megan headed for her desk to close up. It sure beat sitting at home alone. He logged off his computer, phone calls to family temporarily forgotten.

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Charlie whirled and looked behind him. His pursuers were already halfway down the stretch of alley, and behind them, he caught a glimpse of a slight hunched figure scurrying out of the doorway, and down the alley that led back to the street. At least Willy was clear. He spun back around, and grabbing his computer case by the handle, launched it up and over the fence, into a pile of cardboard boxes on the other side. He wasn't sure if it would withstand the landing, but he needed to stall them as much as possible. Even if he didn't make it over the fence, they would need to take time to go around and get his computer – it might create enough delay for rescue to arrive. Still, he wasn't about to sit and wait for that rescue – he leapt for the fence, desperately trying to pull himself up toward the top.

He was hampered by his injured shoulder, but it wouldn't have mattered – his pursuers were too close, and he was only three feet off the ground before he felt hands pulling at him. He landed on the ground with a thump, and flung up a hand to ward off a punch to his face, which still managed to find his cheekbone. Stars exploded in his vision, and he wished belatedly, with despair, that he'd found the time to take the self-defense courses that Don had been urging him to attend.

"Where's your computer?" Hands grabbed him roughly by his shirt, lifting his torso partly off the ground.

The sirens had stopped, Charlie noted dimly, with growing terror. Maybe rescue wasn't imminent – maybe the sirens had sounded for someone else. "I – I don't know."

"Go look for it," the harsh voice ordered, and one of the men took off at a run.

"Where's the other one?"

Charlie shook his head, panting. "I don't know – he went another way."

"What's his name?" the voice demanded, and Charlie looked up, peering in the darkness, trying to gather facts for a description. Not that he'd necessarily get the chance to disseminate those facts to anyone.

"I don't know." His response was met with a fist in the gut, followed by two more blows to his rib cage, one to his jaw, and a kick to his thigh. One agony followed the next, and he tried to curl on his side, away from the fists and feet, but a hand still held the front of his shirt.

The blows stopped, and his attacker spoke again. "You don't know much, do you? Tell us where he went. What were you working on?"

"I don't know," Charlie gasped through the pain, struggling as another fist hammered his ribs, and the blows began again. Dimly he heard shouts at the end of the alley, then gunfire erupted over his head, and the hands released him, finally allowing him to curl up in a fetal position, incapacitated by pain.

He heard the rattle of chain link fence; and through slit eyes saw two figures scale the fence like acrobats, and drop on the other side, ignoring calls to halt, and the warning shots that followed. Pounding feet came after them, and then hands were turning him on his back, and in the darkness, he could see Decker peering anxiously at him. "Professor? Where does it hurt? Where you shot?"

The first question was too hard to answer, but Charlie managed a 'no,' for the second. "Willy-," he gasped.

"Zuckerman's got him, he's okay," replied Decker. "He came shooting out of the alley just as we pulled up – that's how we knew you were back here. No, don't try to sit up – we'll get an ambulance."

"I'm okay," Charlie protested through clenched teeth, as he struggled to a sitting position. He was far from it, but adrenaline was still pumping, giving him strength, and he suddenly wanted to be out of that alley in the worst way. He could see an officer bending over a prone figure; and beyond him was another body.

He blinked, trying to get his bearings before he tried to stand. His head was actually fairly clear; his cheekbone and jaw were throbbing, but the head blows didn't seem to affect his awareness. That was unfortunate, because his torso was in agony; his gut and ribcage had taken the better part of the beating, and protested as he clambered slowly, awkwardly to his feet, with Decker's support.

Decker looked at the hunched, swaying figure anxiously. Ideally, he would wait for an ambulance, but he wanted to get the consultants out of the area as soon as possible. He took one of Charlie's arms, and one of the police officers, who had also responded to the call, took the other, and they slowly began to walk Charlie down the alley.

"My computer bag - it's on the other side of the fence – in the cardboard boxes," Charlie said, in shaky voice, between breaths. Even breathing was painful, and every step made him aware that one used abdominal muscles when walking, which was something he hadn't recognized before.

There were other men coming down the alley now, more officers who had arrived at the scene, and Decker shot a command to one of them. "There's a computer case on the other side of the fence in the boxes – go get it."

They had made it to the end of the side alley, and were preparing to turn down the one that led to the street when the ambulances pulled up. "Let's just sit here and wait for them," Decker suggested, and Charlie finally conceded, sinking to a sitting position on wobbly legs, as a gurney was unloaded and pushed toward him down the alley, and another behind it. A slight figure broke away and dashed after it, followed by Zuckerman, and Willy darted up next to them, his eyes looking as though they were going to explode from his skull.

"That was the bravest thing I've ever seen!" he was babbling to Decker, as the technicians did a quick exam, and gently transferred Charlie to the gurney. "He made me hide in the doorway, and made them run after him – he saved my life – he saved my life -is he going to be okay? Is he-"

"I'm okay, Willy." Charlie addressed him directly, wearily, as the gurney began to move. "Just some bruises. I'll be fine."

Decker waved the other gurney past them. "Go left at the corner down the other alley – there's an officer there with two downed men – we think both of them are dead."

"Oh," breathed Willy. His mouth was round, and that and his bulging eyes made Charlie suddenly think of his koi pond. "Oh, my!"

Zuckerman stepped next to Decker as they walked alongside the gurney, speaking quietly. "Wilhelm's on his way – we should probably call him and redirect him to the hospital. He's moving Willy to a safe house, and Dr. Eppes, too, depending on when he's released from the hospital."

They'd reached the end of the alley and paused, as a somber-looking officer approached. "We did a preliminary check of the office. Andy and Jerry are both dead – shot. They took down one of their attackers. Funny thing is, there's no forced entry – it looks like either Andy or Jerry must have at least started to let them in."

Decker looked at Zuckerman, his brow knit. "How in the heck did someone get them to open the door?"

The officer raised an eyebrow. "Maybe the question isn't how – but who?"

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Charlie shivered in his hospital gown. He'd tried to put up a brave front for Willy; the man was unnerved enough as it was, but now that Willy had been whisked off to a safe house and the adrenaline was starting wear off, shock over what had just happened had started to set in. The cold X-ray table hadn't helped either – he was starting to tremble a little, even though he was now back in the ER exam room, on a gurney and under a blanket.

The nurse in the room noticed. "I'll get you another blanket," she said, and bustled out, passing Pete Wilhelm in the doorway. He stepped inside, followed by Decker and Zuckerman, his face contrite.

"Dr. Eppes, how are you?"

"Please, just Charlie. A little sore," admitted Charlie, "but okay." It was actually a blatant understatement; he ached all over, and his rib cage burned like fire with each breath.

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Andy told us you were coming to pick us up. We had just packed up our laptops when I heard voices at the door – I thought it was Agents Decker and Zuckerman at first. Then I heard something that sounded like a struggle, and as we came to the end of the hall, someone fired. The light wasn't on in the hall, but it looked like Andy was at the door, and he went down. Jerry was in the hallway, firing at whoever was trying to come through the door. I didn't stick around – I grabbed Willy and we went out the front. We tried to flag down a car, but it took off." He made a rueful expression. "I guess we scared them."

Wilhelm smiled a little. "Yeah, you two are pretty scary, all right."

That comment earned him a wry grin, but it faded as Charlie went on. "We got to a cross alley and made a left. There was a recessed doorway just around the corner, and I told Willy to hide there, and to sneak back out once they were past us – all the important stuff is on his computer. I took off down the alley, and they followed me. It probably would have worked a lot better if there hadn't been a fence there. I couldn't see it in the dark until I was right up on it. I tried to go over it, but they pulled me down."

Wilhelm frowned, sympathetically. "Did they speak to you?"

Charlie shifted a little, wincing, trying to find a comfortable position. "Yeah – one of them asked where Willy was, and what his name was. I wouldn't tell them. That's when they started to hit me – then you guys showed up." He quit trying to move – comfortable seemed to be out of the question. Another shudder passed through him.

"Did you recognize any of them?"

"No."

"All right, Charlie, one more question and we'll leave you alone. I know you reported to us earlier you had the possible meth lab locations, and Philly PD is getting warrants and proceeding with the plans for the raids. What we need to know is; did you make any progress on where the money was going?"

Charlie shook his head, and grimaced slightly. "No, but the algorithm is complete. Willy just needs to run it. I'd be very surprised if it didn't turn up who the three recipients of the illegal funds are. One should be Moran, and one, his man, Conaghan. I expect the third will be Dave Maxwell's suspect. Willy can run it overnight – it's going to take several hours, maybe even up to a day or two."

Wilhelm nodded. "That's good. If that's the case, there may not be a reason for you to stay – we could arrange for you to go home tomorrow. I'm going give your brother a call; let him know what happened. Did they say how long they were keeping you?"

"It depends on the X-ray results," said the nurse, as she came back into the room with a heated blanket. "He may be released as soon as they come back, or the doctor may elect to admit him, depending on what he sees." She laid the blanket over Charlie, and he closed his eyes, gratefully.

Wilhelm nodded, and stepped out, with Decker and Zuckerman at his heels. He paused in the hallway, out of hearing of the guard posted at the doorway. "It sounds like Andy recognized someone at the office door, or he wouldn't have opened it. The question is, who?"

"Another cop?" suggested Zuckerman.

"Possibly," said Wilhelm slowly. "Or one of us."

Decker and Zuckerman exchanged a troubled glance. "I'd have a hard time believing that," said Decker, shaking his head. "Unless it was the guy that Maxwell suspects – but how would he have found out where they were?"

Wilhelm sighed, and began to move down the hall, and they moved with him. "I guess we'll know as soon as that program runs. As soon as we get a report from the doctor, I'm going to step outside and call Don Eppes."

The statement brought to Decker's mind a vision of Don Eppes, propped against his brother's office desk, his arms crossed, as he leaned over them, with a smile on his face and a threat in his eyes. "Good luck with that," he said darkly. Wilhelm glanced at him sharply. "Sir," he amended, as they moved down the hallway.

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Moran got the call a little after six p.m. L.A. time. One of Moran's men had gone to get food, and they'd eaten together at the warehouse as Dillon discussed the progress his expert was making with the computer program. Walsh was still there, but was preparing to have one of the men drive him back to downtown Burbank when the cell phone rang, and he sank back into his chair.

"Shit!" Dillon exclaimed into the phone, and Walsh's stomach turned, as he listened to the one-sided conversation.

"They're going to hide them somewhere else. Get LaBonte on it, pronto. We need to know where they're moving them." Dillon snapped the phone shut; his face dark. "That was O'Brien. They botched the damn job. He said three of his men escaped, along with LaBonte, but three of them were killed. They killed the two guards at the office, but Eppes and the other consultant ran for it. They caught up with Eppes, but lost the other guy, and then the feds and some more cops showed up, so they ran."

Walsh swallowed the lump in his throat. "Did they find out who the other consultant was?"

"No." The word was spat out with disgust. "They've already taken him somewhere, and O'Brien thinks Eppes is at the hospital, at least for now. The guys beat him up some, but they didn't think he was seriously hurt. You can bet as soon as he's released, they'll put him back with the other guy. We need Agent LaBonte to find out where that is."

"So is he working on it? LaBonte?"

"O'Brien can't get him to answer his damn phone. I told him to keep trying. Jack's man said he was sure LaBonte got out of there – as soon as the struggle started at the door, he stepped back, and then Jack's man saw him hightailing it for his vehicle. Chicken-shit."

Walsh looked reflective. "Maybe it's a good thing. We still need him – he's our only man on the inside. It wouldn't have done us any good if he'd gotten shot. Was there any chance the cops could ID him?"

"They could if they were alive," snarled Dillon. "They were both taken out."

"Then we're still okay," said Walsh. "We just need to get LaBonte to find out where they put them. He did it once, he can do it again." His words were calm, but the beginnings of panic were stirring in his gut. The reality was, Wilhelm would tighten security, and LaBonte's job would get even harder. The reality was; their backs were now against the wall.

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Mike LaBonte sat at his desk in the darkened office, took a pull from the whiskey bottle in front of him, and stared at his vibrating phone. He didn't need to see the number to know it was Jack O'Brien, undoubtedly calling to cuss him out, and then to give him another assignment. Well, it was too damn bad, he reflected, as he swallowed another slug. He was done.

The sight of the cop, Andy, going down, had sickened him. He'd worked a couple of cases with the man. Andy had a wife and teenage kids in college, was only a few years from retirement. Now he was a corpse – set up by him, Mike LaBonte. It was his face that had gotten Andy to open that door. Andy had trusted him, and that was what it got him. A bullet in the heart – a sucker shot.

A photo of his father stared back at him in black and white from the frame on the desk in front of him. Steely-eyed, with a proud smile, an agent himself, now retired. He'd told Mike it was one of the best days in his life when Mike had joined the Bureau.

'_Now look at me,_' LaBonte thought, his face twisted. Worse than any criminal he'd ever gone after – because he'd set up one of his own. He took another pull from the bottle and set it down with a shaking hand. O'Brien could go to hell. He was done.

He took one last look at the picture, then picked up his service revolver from the desk, placed the muzzle in his mouth, angling it up against his hard palate, and pulled the trigger. The back of his head exploded, raining blood and bits of skull and gray matter against the file cabinet behind him. His body slumped forward over the desk in front of him, the gun not quite falling all the way out of his mouth before the table pushed it back in, where it helped prop up what was left of his head. He was done.

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End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: reviews please..._

**Chapter 11**

Don set down his mug and reached for the cell phone in his back pocket, grinning at David and Colby's good-natured bantering. Megan leaned back against her seat, relaxed, smiling, listening to the conversation. It was nearly eight, and they were still at Juan Carlo's and done with dinner, but the plates hadn't been cleared yet, and they were lingering over a beer. Lively mariachi music played, as Don glanced at the number, trying to place it. He flipped the cell phone open and answered, and Megan's sharp eyes caught the fading of his smile.

"Excuse me for a minute," Don said quietly to the group, and he rose and made his way through the busy restaurant, through the outer door. Their eyes followed him; then they glanced at each other. Colby shrugged and picked up the conversation again with David, but Megan's eyes remained on Don as he exited, and her brow furrowed slightly.

Outside, Don moved away from the entrance toward an empty stretch of sidewalk. "Okay, Pete, I can talk. What's up?"

Pete Wilhelm took a breath on the other end, as he drove one-handed through the dark streets. "It's about Charlie."

"What about Charlie?" Don's words were sharp, made impatient by a sudden surge of fear.

"First of all, he's okay. We had a little incident tonight, and he got roughed up a bit, but he's all right."

"What little incident?" Don's voice rose. "What in the hell are you talking about, Wilhelm?"

Pete was beginning to understand Decker's reservations, when he mentioned that he planned to call Don Eppes. He was glad there was the better part of a continent between them. "Some men attacked Charlie and our other consultant at the office where they were working tonight. The attackers killed two police bodyguards. Charlie and the other consultant ran for it; Charlie arranged for the other man to escape, and drew the attackers after him. They caught him in an alley, and beat him up some before we could get to him. It was pretty gutsy on his part."

Pride at his brother's bravery and concern over his condition fought for dominance, tying Don's tongue for a moment. "You said he's okay though – where is he? Can I talk to him?"

"Not right now – he's in the hospital – they're holding him a couple of hours for observation – they don't see signs of concussion or internal injuries, but they want to be sure. The X-rays came back – he's got a couple of cracked ribs and some nasty bruises, but that seems to be the worst of it. We moved the other man to a safe house. When Charlie's released, we'll take him there, too. He can call you from there."

"Do you know who did it?"

Pete understood the unspoken portion of that question_. Do you know who did it, so you can keep them from doing it again?_ He tried to sound reassuring. "Not yet, but we will soon. Charlie and the other consultant have finished their programming, and it's running right now. We expect it to name not only Moran, but others. We picked a safe house run by the DEA – not FBI. Only me, Decker and Zuckerman, and Dave Maxwell know where they are right now. The three of us are staying there personally tonight."

"I'm going to make arrangements to fly out there."

"No, there's no need. Charlie's done all he can here. We're going to fly him back home tomorrow – but you can arrange to meet him at the airport. We should be issuing arrest warrants, hopefully tomorrow, too – there shouldn't be any risk to him, after that." Pete paused, and his voice changed, tinged with regret. "Look, I'm sorry, Eppes. I don't know how they found him. He was my responsibility and I blew it. I won't let it happen again."

"_Damn right, you won't,"_ thought Don to himself. A residue of anger still simmered inside, but he bit off the caustic words that rose to his tongue. "Just keep him safe, okay? And have him call me when he can."

"You got it. We'll be in touch."

Don snapped the phone shut, and turned back toward the restaurant, to see Megan standing by the entrance. "Everything okay?" she murmured, as he approached.

"Yeah," he said quietly. "Everything's okay. Charlie…was in a little accident, but he's fine. He's coming home tomorrow." Her eyes were on him – those eyes that saw more of him than he liked, and he looked away. "Let's get back in there." He composed his features, looked back at her, and smiled. "Or should we stiff Colby and David with the bill?" She laughed as he held the door for her.

Hundreds of miles away, Pete Wilhelm pulled his car into the parking garage at the FBI office. He needed his computer and his files if he was going to stay at the safe house. He'd already arranged to get Dr. Eppes there undetected from the hospital, which would involve a ride out in an ambulance to a drop off point, where Zuckerman would be waiting. Decker was already at the safe house with Willy, and Pete would join them there.

He hit the elevator button, entered, and hit another, riding in the heavy silence, musing over the occurrences of the evening. It was nearly eleven p.m., and the parking lot and the building were quiet, deserted. The only cars he'd noticed were Agent LaBonte's and an SUV he didn't recognize. It registered suddenly that the SUV was a rental, and he frowned, pondering that oddity, as he stepped off the elevator, and rounded the corner toward the bullpen. A glance toward LaBonte's desk brought him up short. "Aw, Jesus," he breathed in shock and despair, as the sight and the smell of blood and neural matter hit him at the same time. "Aw, Jesus."

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Charlie sank painfully, wearily onto the bed in the safe house, and hit speed dial on his cell phone. It was after one a.m. in Philadelphia, ten p.m. L.A. time, and his brother answered on the first ring. "Charlie?"

"Yeah."

Charlie's voice sounded husky with fatigue and pain, and Don felt a pang of sympathy. He'd give anything to be there right now. "You okay, Buddy?"

Charlie snorted softly, mirthlessly. "I guess you could say that. Pretty sore, but nothing serious. It got a little hairy here tonight."

"Yeah, I heard. What in the hell were you thinking – making them come after you?"

Charlie sighed. "It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

Don's voice softened. "It was pretty damn brave of you – stupid, but brave. I'm proud of you."

A smile crept to Charlie's face, and he felt his heart lift. Suddenly the events of the night didn't seem quite so terrifying. Don was proud of him – he couldn't ask to hear anything better than that, he thought. He was wrong.

He tried to sound nonchalant, to keep the almost giddy happiness out of his voice. "I'll be home tomorrow, probably tomorrow evening. The jet's in use – they can't get it until around five our time. I'd like to make sure that algorithm runs correctly, anyway."

"Call me and let me know the time," Don replied. "I'll be there. Did you call Dad?"

"No – I think it's better if I just tell him after he gets home."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Don admitted. "Did they give you pain medication?"

"Yeah."

"Well, take some and get some sleep. Love you."

Charlie nearly dropped the phone. '_Love you?' _Don had only said that once, to his recollection – that night at his apartment, and they were drunk. Now he was tossing the words out as if they were a fact of life, a foregone conclusion. The phrase was reminiscent of how their father had signed off on long distance calls when they'd been in college, but Charlie had never heard Don use it, before now. His heart swelled with emotion, and his lips curled in an amazed, ridiculously happy smile. "Love you too," Charlie said softly. The call disconnected, and he sat there, still smiling, clutching the phone to his aching chest.

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Pete Wilhelm didn't make it to the safe house until 3:00 a.m. In spite of the late hour, Decker and Zuckerman were both up, and they looked at him expectantly as he lowered himself wearily into an armchair. He'd called them and told them about LaBonte – somehow press had shown up with the emergency personnel and the city cops; someone somewhere along the line had leaked the information to the news media. Pete had notified LaBonte senior, and there was no reason not to release Mike's name, although Wilhelm wasn't about to reveal it as a suicide, at least not yet. Still the word was out; the story would hit the morning broadcasts and papers.

"You're sure it was suicide?" asked Decker quietly. "I just can't see it."

"There was no note, but it sure looked that way," said Wilhelm. His voice was heavy. "But there's something you need to know. There was a number on his cell phone – he'd made his last couple of calls to that number, and received a few also. I looked it up – it's registered to Jack O'Brien. I had Philly P.D. put an APB out – we're gonna bring him in for questioning."

"Jack O'Brien," repeated Zuckerman, in amazement. They'd run across that name during the investigation, as an associate of Moran's. "As in Dillon Moran's old buddy, Jack O'Brien?"

Wilhelm nodded. "One and the same. And here's the other thing – there was an SUV in the parking garage when I got there tonight – a rental. PD checked, and found out that it was rented by LaBonte."

Decker hated the way the conversation was heading. He'd liked LaBonte. "Maybe his car was on the fritz."

Wilhelm shook his head. "His car was right there in the garage. He'd driven it in that morning, and we took his keys and checked it – it started right up."

Zuckerman swallowed. "A dark SUV?"

"Black."

Zuckerman looked at Decker, who was miserably regarding his shoes. "Remember, I told you I thought that SUV was behind us too long."

"Yeah, but we lost him as we got closer," Decker argued. "How would he have found us again?" The implication of his words hit him – LaBonte would have known about the location of the travel agency office – it was no secret among the agents. "Aw, shit."

Pete sighed. "You got that right." A short silence descended, and he rose. "I'm going to grab a couple of winks – one of you should, too. How's Willy?"

"Okay," said Decker dispiritedly. "A little freaked out, but not too bad. I think he's a little high on all of it – thinks he's some kind of super-consultant now, like his hero, Eppes. He's sleeping, but he's got his program running."

Pete stretched. "Did either of you check on Eppes? The doctor said we should wake him up once or twice, just to make sure there was no problem with a concussion."

Zuckerman shook his head. "No, not yet. We didn't get here until almost one."

Pete headed for the stairs. "I'll check him. Which of you is up first?"

"I will," sighed Decker. "I don't feel much like sleeping right now, anyway."

Pete passed the first room at the top of the stairs – that was the one he would use, and paused at the second door, easing it open gently. The light from the hallway illuminated Willy's profile, his mouth was open, and he was snoring loudly. Pete shut the door, and moved across the hallway to the third room, and his heart leapt as he softly pushed the door open. The room was dark, and the bed was empty.

For a moment, he stood dumbfounded; then he noticed the figure huddled on the floor. "Crap," he breathed to himself. Had Eppes collapsed? He strode across the floor, and knelt next to him, shaking his shoulder gently. "Dr. Eppes?"

Charlie groaned as he woke, and the pain of his injuries reasserted itself. He slowly became aware of Pete Wilhelm, bending over him. "What?" he asked groggily. "Is the program done?"

The response reassured Wilhelm – apparently Eppes was thinking clearly enough. "Are you okay? I looked in to check and saw you on the floor – did you fall?"

Charlie blinked. "No. I'm fine – I just – uh, it's more comfortable – the support for my ribcage," he stammered, lamely. After his heroics of the evening, he hated to admit that he was afraid to sleep in a bed. The floor was horribly uncomfortable, but he'd already tried the bed, and the ensuing nightmare, worse than normal, had made the floor seem like a reasonable alternative.

Wilhelm frowned in confusion. "Let me at least get you a blanket."

He pulled one off the bed and laid it over Charlie. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, fine," said Charlie. He could feel the rising claustrophobia that the blanket generated, and he fought it down with an effort. "Thank you." He closed his eyes, and as soon as Wilhelm had let himself softly out of the room, he threw off the blanket, and took in a big painful, gasp of air. He lay still for a moment as his breathing regulated, trying to ignore the pain, and finally, utter fatigue won, and he drifted off to sleep.

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Walsh padded down the hotel hall to the stairwell at four in the morning, and slipped behind the heavy metal door. It was raining outside – hard, and he could hear the constant rushing sound of water in the quiet. He'd been wakened by his disposable cell, and didn't dare try to talk in his room – it could well have been bugged while he'd been out the previous afternoon. "Yeah," he croaked, after looking and up and down the stairs and listening for a moment. This wouldn't be an option ordinarily, but at this time of night, the stairs were empty. Still, he needed to be careful of what he said. "What is it?"

Moran's voice floated over the line, filled with tension. "I just got a call from Philly. LaBonte's dead."

"What?"

"They're not saying how, but I got inside word that it was a suicide."

Walsh swore softly. "That dumb bastard!"

"They got an APB out for Jackie, too – he's hiding and they haven't picked him up yet, but the bottom line is; we've got no one now who can figure out where they are. We're running out of goddamn time."

Walsh was silent for a moment. "There is one person who knows – and he's right here."

"Who?"

"Don Eppes."

Moran paused. "How do we know he knows where they are?"

Walsh hissed impatiently, in a stage whisper. "He met with them, right? Before Dr. Eppes left for Philly. Your man said that he saw Don Eppes with his brother and two agents at the professor's office, and then Dr. Eppes left with those same two men on the flight that evening. We didn't know then, but we know now, that he was headed for Philadelphia. Don Eppes had to be in on it."

Dillon pondered that for a moment. "Even if he doesn't know where they are, it might work. We could use him as leverage to get Dr. Eppes to stop work – maybe even get the professor to come out in the open, where we could deal with him. We don't have a hell of a lot of other options. Let me think on this."

Jason pulled the phone from his ear, listening. It was still quiet, but he paused a little longer, thinking rapidly. He resumed the conversation. "If you decide to do it, make sure you have an alibi when it goes down, and let me know what's going on and when. And I need a favor. I need one of your men this morning. Someone not afraid to get his hands dirty." Somewhere above, a door opened and closed, and Jason went rigid.

"Why? For what?"

"I can't talk now," replied Walsh quietly. "Just do it." He disconnected, and slipped back through the metal door, as the plodding steps of the security guard descended the flights above him.

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End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews - sorry this was delayed - I was out of town yesterday._

**Chapter 12**

Don walked into the bullpen Friday morning, unlocked his desk, and grabbed his coffee cup. He'd spent another restless night; the nightmares worse than normal, no doubt generated by the news of Charlie's narrow escape. He'd had two cups of coffee already, and they hadn't seemed to put a dent in the fog enveloping his brain. It was nearly eight, but the sky outside was dark, and the sheets of rain made it seem darker yet. The remnants of the Santa Ana winds had blown fitfully the last week, starting two small wildfires, but the torrential downpour that was soaking the coastline would take care of that situation. The darkness outside made the lights in the office seem unnaturally bright, as Don made his way to the break room.

Colby and Megan were already there, and Don nodded as he greeted them, heading for the coffee pot. Last night at the restaurant, he'd made it sound as though Charlie had been in a minor car accident when he'd gone back to the table, figuring it would fend off some questions when his brother returned.

"How's Charlie?" Megan asked immediately. "Did you get a chance to talk to him?"

"Yeah, at about ten last night," Don replied. "They'd released him – he's okay except for bruises and a couple of cracked ribs. He's coming home tonight – said he'd call later with the arrival time." All true, he thought to himself.

"What happened?" asked Colby. "Was he wearing a seatbelt?"

"Uh, I don't really have all the details. It was one a.m. his time; and we didn't talk long – he was going to bed." Don concentrated on pouring coffee, avoiding Megan's gaze. "I'm going over to his place later this morning with the crime lab techs – I told you we found Sean Moran's hiding place in the basement. I want to get that done and get it cleaned up before he comes home."

Colby's face clouded. "If you don't mind, maybe I'll come with you. I'd like to see what I missed."

Don turned and took a sip of coffee. "Yeah, well, you'll probably feel a little better when you see it. There's no way you would have thought that space was back there when you looked at the boxes." He moved back toward the office, and they trailed after him.

"What time are you going?" asked Colby, behind him.

Don nodded at David, who passed them on the way to his desk. "I'm meeting the techs there at eleven." He sat at his desk and chanced a glance at Megan, but she was already on her way over to talk to David, for once unaware that there was a little more to Don's story than he was letting on. Charlie's assignment, and the fact that Moran case was heating up again, was still a secret. '_Not for long_,' Don thought to himself with satisfaction, as he remembered Pete Wilhelm's comment about arrest warrants being issued, possibly today. The thought of Moran finally behind bars made him grin to himself, as he turned to the paperwork on his desk.

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Jason Walsh slipped out of the hotel delivery entrance, and trotted down the service drive and across the street. He was fairly certain that his only surveillance was stationed in the parking lot near his rental car, but he took the added precaution of taking the back way out, hiding his face under an umbrella. One good thing about the rain, he thought – it had canceled golf plans for the day. It was now a little after seven-thirty, and he had plans to meet his golfing buddies for breakfast at ten – but he had business to attend to, first. He slogged the two blocks through the rain, and entered the parking garage where Moran had stashed the silver Pontiac G6. He put down the umbrella, and as he approached the car, a figure detached itself from where it had been leaning against a concrete pillar.

Jason eyed him. "Name?"

"Ramon," said the man, with a hint of Hispanic accent, and Jason hit the remote keyless entry for the vehicle.

"Get in."

Walsh got behind the wheel as Ramon got in the passenger side, but he didn't start the car. "Moran told you I have a job for you."

"Si. Yes."

"You know Sean Moran."

Ramon smiled. "Of course. Sean and I were – bizness associates – before I knew Dillon."

"Then you know where Sean is. We're springing him this morning." He shot a glance at Ramon to gage his reaction, but the man seemed unperturbed. Good. Walsh continued. "I got some information from Dillon; and some of it from a database I know of. They let Sean's group out for exercise in the morning at ten a.m. They wear tracking bracelets – the guards keep a visual on the grounds through monitors, but mostly they watch the bracelets, to make sure that they stay within the perimeters of the fence. There's some kind of alarm that sounds if the bracelets go past the fence boundaries."

"Is the fence electric?" asked Ramon.

'_Good question,_' thought Walsh, '_the man is thinking_.' "No," he replied. "Some of the prisoners are medicated; some of them are mentally incapacitated. The most dangerous of them are doped up so much they couldn't find their ass with both hands. They're too out of it to stay away from the fence – they'd get fried. The yard is bare – just grass, and it's that way for most of the way around the outside of the fence too, at least for a few yards. Beyond that there is some brush and trees. I don't know exactly how close they come, but I looked at surveillance photos this morning, and it looks like the cover comes closest to the far right corner of the yard, if you have your back to the prison buildings."

Ramon nodded. Walsh looked at him. "I will make sure Sean gets to that back right corner this morning. What you need to do is get there ahead of time, but not too much ahead, and cut a slit in the fence that he can get through. When he comes back there, hand him the cutters, and have him cut his bracelet off and throw it back into the yard, then get out through the fence and into the cover. Then you'll take him to your car, and drive him to this location." He handed Ramon the address of the warehouse.

Ramon took the paper and glanced at it, but he was frowning. "This will be in plain view of the watchers."

"Perhaps," conceded Walsh. "It is risky. The weather will probably help, although if it's raining as hard as it is now, they may not let them out at right at ten – you'll have to be flexible. You'll have to move fast – then you'll maximize your chances that they aren't looking at the yard at that moment – they have to watch surveillance screens, too. I'm going to try to come up with some kind of diversion, but I don't know what that will be yet. We're working on borrowed time. I can tell you it will be well worth your while."

Ramon grunted. "How much?"

"Thirty grand."

Ramon looked at him. "Si," he said, "very well. I will do it."

They exchanged cell phone numbers, and Ramon exited the car. Jason waited a moment after Ramon pulled out, then got out of the car, and headed back to the hotel. He would take his rental vehicle, complete with his tail, out to the prison. The agents tailing him would become part of his alibi.

He'd made it sound to Ramon as if Dillon knew what they had planned – in fact, Moran had no idea. Jason would have to tell him eventually, and he would try to spin it so that Dillon thought he had Sean's best interests at heart. The fact was; Jason had no such motive. He needed Sean out as soon as possible, because Sean Moran was going to take the fall for the kidnapping and murder of Don Eppes.

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The director of the state hospital, Sam Willington, hurried into the waiting area. It wasn't often they got such a high-ranking member of government, and the man was visiting unannounced. He bustled forward, his hand outstretched. "Mr. Walsh, very good to meet you, sir. What brings you here today?"

Walsh regarded the man in front of him. Round face, small, somewhat suspicious eyes, petulant mouth. "I was in the area," said Jason smoothly, "and I wanted to check on the status of an inmate. He was put here based on a psychological evaluation until he was fit to stand trial. I'd like to see for myself his mental capacity. We may want to have him re-evaluated."

Willington's eyes brows rose. "This is somewhat irregular." At Walsh's cold look, he continued hurriedly, glancing at his watch. "It's shortly after eight-thirty – he will have finished breakfast. I'll see if they can bring him down."

"Thank you," replied Jason, the cold expression replaced by warmth. "I've heard excellent things about your facility – after I talk, would it be too much trouble to ask for a quick tour?"

Willington relaxed a bit. "Of course. No trouble at all."

Moments later, Jason was ushered through two sets of security doors to a small room. Now that he was here, he was second-guessing himself. This was insane – maybe he should be committed here himself. Sean knew him from earlier days in Philly, and Jason was about to surprise him. What if Sean let that fact slip? He had no clue what Sean's current mental state was – or whether he'd be sharp enough to pick up on what was happening.

The door opened, and Walsh tensed. Sean stepped in, and his eyes held a flicker of recognition, but he said nothing as he was led, shackled, to a chair. Walsh looked at Willington and the guard. "I'd like to speak to him privately."

Willington hesitated, but nodded. "All right." He jerked his head toward a one-way window, indicating behind Sean's back that he and the guard would watch from there.

Jason had been expecting that, and he knew he had only the seconds it would take for them to step out of the door and go into the viewing room. "You're getting out this morning," he said to Sean in a low voice. "During your exercise break, go to the far right corner of the fence. Now play along." Sean's eyes widened but to Walsh's infinite relief, he said nothing. Jason raised his voice, and for the next several minutes, asked Sean a variety of questions, pretending to gage his acuity. Actually, he really was measuring Sean's response, and was heartened by what he saw. Sean had no problem playing along – he seemed to be alert, all there. At nine, Walsh rose, and addressed the window.

"All right, I'm finished with him."

After they'd taken Sean back, Willington took him on the tour personally, which, although short, included the surveillance room. As Jason had expected, the two guards there kept watch on several monitors, including the grounds, so there would be moments when the yard itself would not be watched. They sat in front of a large window that looked out on the yard, which was currently unoccupied. Jason pretended amazement at the bracelet tracking system. "That's a great idea," he said to the guard, who was proudly explaining how the system worked. "That's something we could use at some of our federal prisons. Would you mind if I called you later to discuss it?"

"No problem," said the guard, flushing with pride. He scrawled his number on a memo slip, along with the name, Mack Johnson, and handed it to Jason. "We've never had a break here, in thirty years."

Walsh looked at his watch. It had taken forty minutes to get out here, and it was nine thirty. If he wanted to solidify his alibi, he had to leave now. He shook hands with the guards, and turned to Willington. "Thank you for the tour. I'm afraid I need to be going." He looked at the guard. "I'll call you soon. Thanks again."

His tail was waiting for him in the parking lot, and he made sure they followed him all the way back to his hotel. He made better time on the return trip, and had his rental vehicle back in the lot at ten. He re-entered the hotel, and made for the hotel restaurant, but before he went in, he checked his watch. 10:05 a.m. Through the entrance, he could see two of his golfing group already seated at a table, as he dialed the number of the prison guard in the surveillance room. "Hi – this is Jason Walsh – bet you didn't think I'd call you so soon," he said to the surprised guard on the other side. "Look, Mack, I was talking to a director that oversees our federal prisons, and he had a couple of questions. He wanted to know how long the bracelet system has been in operation, and how you man it."

In the control booth, Mack shot a glance out the second story reinforced glass window to the exercise yard, below. It was a little after ten, and they'd just let out the maximum-security ward – at least the bulk of them. There was a handful that was so diseased, so mad, that they could only exercise them individually, inside. This group was allowed general exercise in the yard, but they merited close scrutiny, and his eyes flitted to the blips on the screen that indicated their bracelets. Fifteen men out, fifteen blips. "Yes, sir," he replied. "I'll have to look up how long it's been operating in the files. If you'll wait just a second, I'll run and do that, and Jim here can talk to you about how we man the system." He handed the phone off to his partner, and said, sotto voce, "This is Mr. Walsh – he's got a question. I'm going to run and look it up for him – keep an eye on the yard."

Jim took the phone and nodded. Technically, there were supposed to be two of them in the surveillance booth when prisoners were in the yard, but they'd deviated from that rule more than once, for lesser things – cigarettes, bathroom breaks. They'd never had a problem. He took a glance out the window. It was starting to rain again, anyway – they'd probably bring the men in early. "Yes, sir, Mr. Walsh, what can I do for you?"

Jason listened with the phone to ear, and smiled at the last of their golf foursome, who had entered the restaurant lobby, and was crossing the floor in front of him, on his way in to the table, and the man nodded back. Jason had no reason to hide this conversation – if anyone questioned him, he planned to claim it was a legitimate work-related visit – and on his vacation time, no less. "Yes, just a quick question, apart from you two in the booth, how do you man the bracelet system? Are they ever used indoors?" He listened, smiling, as Jim launched into a description of how the system was run. He'd gotten one of the guards out of the room, and one of them was distracted on the phone. He could only hope the man was distracted enough.

What Jason hadn't planned on was the inclement weather – but it was proving to serve to his advantage. It had already rained more than once that morning, and some of the downpours were heavy, cutting visibility to near zero. During one of them, Ramon had managed to sneak forward out of the brush and cut a vertical slash in the fence. It would not be apparent unless someone came right up on it, but the edges could be pushed aside enough to let a man out.

By twelve minutes after ten, Sean had managed to wander toward the back right corner, and just then, the rain began to start again. A figure slipped out of the brush, and as it handed cutters through the fence, Sean, with a pounding heart, recognized Ramon. Ramon pantomimed, pointing to his wrist, but Sean was already at work with the cutters. It took him two seconds to cut through the bracelet, and he tossed it a few feet behind him into the yard, just as the heavens opened in earnest, and it started to pour. Inmates covered their heads with their arms, and began shuffling back toward the entrance, as Sean slipped through the gap in the fence, and disappeared into the brush after Ramon.

Mack had just gotten back to the control booth, when the word came crackling up through the radio system that they were bringing in the prisoners. The yard was merely a gray blur by this time, the view from the window almost obliterated by a sheet of water. In these cases, they relied on the white blips on the screen, created by the bracelets. He watched as the blips moved slowly toward the yard entrance, which on the screen was the left hand bottom corner, and took the phone back from Jim. "Yes, Mr. Walsh; thanks for waiting. I looked it up – we've run this system for twelve years, sir, since February 1996. Yes, it's been quite successful. No, sir, no problem."

He hung up, and Jim pointed to the screen at two blips still out in the yard. The rest of the blips were a cluster at the lower left hand corner – inmates waiting to be counted and let back through the gate. Jim wrinkled his nose. "I used to work that detail – whenever it rained, the scumbags would come in smelling like wet dogs. It sucked; you had to stand out in the rain and count 'em, and they stunk."

Mack looked at the two remaining blips, and squinted out into the yard. It was raining even harder, now – he could make out nothing. He got on the radio mike. "We got two morons still out there," he said to the guard on the other end. "Better send a guy out to get 'em." He sat back and muttered. "Never fails. There are always a couple of the bastards too dumb to come in out of the rain."

Jim smirked. One of the blips was moving aimlessly in a small circle, and the other was completely still. "Must have given them the good stuff this morning."

Another voice came through the radio. "Okay, I found one of them – I'm bringing him in." Mack and Jim watched as the blip moved slowly toward the bottom of the screen, and then waited.

"Damn, it's raining hard," Jim muttered into the silence, which seemed to be stretching just a bit too long.

"Where in the hell is he?" The guard's voice came up through the radio again, filled with frustration. "Is he moving around?"

Mack frowned and depressed the mike button again. "Negative. He's standing still – about four yards each way from the back corner fences."

"That's where I'm at," insisted the guard. "I don't – oh damn."

Mack and Jim peered futilely out the window at his words, into gray dimness. "What?"

"I got a bracelet, looks like it's cut. Better get some more men out here, and sound the alarm."

Miles away, back in L.A.; Jason Walsh sat at the table, perused the menu, and glanced, smiling, at the members of his golf foursome. He'd hung up with the guard, only to get Ramon's message on his disposable cell that they were away, already in Ramon's car. That settled, he had finally entered the restauarant and joined the group. "Wouldn't you know," he said, shaking his head. "We come all the way out here and it pours."

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End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews..._

**Chapter 13**

A little before noon, Don watched the last of the crime techs make their way out of Charlie's kitchen, and looked at Colby. "See, I told you the hiding place wasn't obvious."

Colby shook his head remorsefully. "I shoulda moved the boxes and looked."

Don snorted. "Based on that logic, you would have had to have torn half the house apart every time you went through it. I didn't think about it either. Don't worry about it."

Colby sighed. "Maybe. Well, I'm heading back in to the office – I might stop and pick up lunch first. You said you were gonna stay, right?"

Don rolled up his sleeves. "Yeah. Now that the lab guys are done, I'm going to put the basement back together. I think it kinda freaked Charlie out to find that – I want it to look a little more normal when he gets home." He debated briefly; then decided to remove his gun and shoulder holster while he worked; it would be more comfortable. Colby watched as he slid it off and laid it on the counter.

"He gets in tonight, huh?"

"Yeah, he called a little while ago – he thinks it'll be around six-thirty."

Colby nodded. "Okay – we got that meeting at 1:30 – are you gonna be back by then?"

"Yeah," Don tossed over his shoulder, as he headed for the basement door. "This'll only take fifteen or twenty minutes – I'll be back by one, easy."

"Right. Later," said Colby, as he let himself out the kitchen door.

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Dillon Moran stepped out from the indoor tennis court into the hallway as his phone rang, still clutching his racket. He'd played a round of doubles, and was waiting with his partner for a court. He stepped down the hallway toward a quiet spot as he answered. "Moran."

"He's alone, still at his brother's house. The last of them just left. You want us to take him here?"

"Yeah," said Moran. "Do it."

He disconnected, and typed in a text message. "Jason. It's going down - now." He pocketed the phone, and then stopped at the drinking fountain before heading back in to the court.

Back at the hotel, Jason Walsh stepped aside from the poker game set up in his buddy's hotel room, and glanced at his message. He shoved the phone in his pocket, and returned to the table, grinning. "Someone needs to deal me some aces."

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Charlie made his way stiffly from the kitchen of the safe house to the ground floor room that had been set up as an office, carefully bearing a cup of hot tea. It was close to 3:00 p.m. EST, and the algorithm was still running. He was packed and ready to go; he and Wilhelm had already agreed he should depart a little after 5:00 p.m., when the jet became available. He'd already called Don and told him that he would be in at around six-thirty p.m., LA time. In the meantime, they were waiting for the program to complete its analysis. The events of the past two days had driven the situation with Amita out of his mind, or at least submerged it. Now that he had time to think, the situation had resurfaced, and the resulting pain added to the throbbing of his injuries.

It was the worst argument they'd ever had. They'd had spats before, but always managed to work through them, and at first he'd thought that this would be no different – it was painful, but they'd find a way through it somehow. After days of continued silence on her part however, he was beginning to fear it was something more, something much worse. What if they couldn't work their way out of this one? She knew how much it meant for him to work for Don – if she really cared about him, how could she ask him to give it up? If he followed the logic, the answer to that question would tell him that perhaps she really didn't care enough to make it work. Maybe this was just an excuse on her part to end it; maybe she really wanted out, maybe…

He groaned, and ran a hand down his face, wincing as he hit his cheekbone. He had to stop stewing over this, he told himself. He couldn't do anything about it here – he had to put it aside and deal with it when he got back. He forced his mind back to the algorithm. He had hoped the program would spit out its results before now, but so far it was still chugging along. Willy had been glued to the screen since early that morning, and the agents were pacing restlessly. They were having a hard time understanding why it was taking so long; they hadn't grasped the concept that the program would accomplish in a matter of hours what would have taken weeks without it – weeks and an untold amount of errors.

As Charlie passed a mirror in the hall, he glanced at his face. On his left cheekbone and right jawbone were two dark purple, swollen bruises, and his torso was much worse. It hurt to breathe, it hurt to move. It was going to be a long trip home. He paused in the doorway, and took a sip of tea as he regarded the back of Willy's head, which partially obscured the computer screen. The scrolling line of white figures on black suddenly ground to a halt, and Willy sat up straight in his chair. "I think it's done!"

Charlie shuffled forward as quickly as he could, pain almost forgotten, and the group clustered around Willy and the monitor.

"It worked!" Willy crowed. "There's search variable one – it shows SSN# 197- 56-4239."

"Dillon Moran," said Charlie.

"Variable two is 146-73-4990."

"Conaghan," replied Charlie, and the agents looked at him. Charlie shrugged a little. "I had those two memorized. We'll have to look up the third one."

Willy scanned the screen. "Okay, three is 247-13-5582." He flipped to another screen, access to a federal database, and searched for the number, following the line across to the name. "That corresponds to a guy named Jason Walsh." He turned and looked at the three agents and Charlie, who were staring at the screen with a stunned expression. "Who is Jason Walsh?"

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Don pushed the last of the boxes into place, and dusted his hands. He glanced at the small safe, which sat off to the side. Better leave that out where Charlie could get to it, he thought to himself. His brother had put some papers, and at Don's recommendation, his new pistol, in it before he left. He glanced around, making sure he'd gotten all of the trash, as he picked up the plastic garbage bag. Sean had pilfered an old ratty blanket to lie on, and the crime techs had taken that, and some of the empty cracker packages and water bottles. Don had scooped up the rest, and told the techs to stash the blanket in evidence when they were done, with a tag to dispose after the trial, if there ever was one. He imagined that no amount of washing would ever make Charlie want that blanket back.

He trudged up the basement stairs, holding the garbage bag. He'd dump it in the trash, wash his hands, lock up and head back to the office.

His mind was already on the 1:30 meeting as he reached the top of the stairs. A flash of movement to his left caught his eye just as he came through the doorway, and his head jerked sideways. He thought later that had it been almost anywhere other than Charlie's house, the place he'd called home for so long, he would have already been responding with a defensive measure, even as he turned his head. This time though, he looked first – he wasn't entirely conscious of why – perhaps something made him think it might be his father, home early. In the end, he wasn't sure if that split second of delay would have made a difference – there were four of them, after all.

As his eyes connected with the unknown figure, who had a blackjack raised over his head, he finally did respond, not bothering to raise a hand to ward off the blow – he just charged the man, and shoved the half-full plastic garbage bag right in his face as he did, obstructing his attacker's view. As a result, the baton missed Don's head as it came down, and connected instead, painfully, with his shoulder. He ignored it; his hand found the man's head through the plastic, and he rapped it sharply against the wall, just as another pair of hands grabbed his arms from behind and pulled him away.

He resisted, twisting, trying to pull away to get to his piece on the counter, but the second attacker had a firm grip. Don changed tactics suddenly, and threw his weight into the man, and both of them careened into the kitchen table, which crashed against the wall. Off-balance, they went down hard on a chair, smashing it, and the man yelled as the sharp end of a broken chair leg found his upper arm. Don was rolling now, trying to regain his feet as the man released his grip, but the rest of them were on him. He twisted violently in their grip, but in spite of his struggles, they held him still enough for a syringe to find its mark in his upper arm. Still, he fought them, even as his limbs began to weaken and his head began to swim, until the vertigo took him under, into blackness.

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Colby closed the file on his desk and glanced at his watch, frowning, just as Megan approached his desk. "Colby, it's 1:20. Didn't Don say he was going to be here for the meeting?"

Colby nodded, his brow furrowed. They were meeting with A.D. Wright to go over the Marciano case at 1:30; it was an important meeting, and one that Don wouldn't miss. "He told me that he thought he would be here by 1:00," he said, as he fished out his cell phone. "I'll call him and see where he is." He flipped his cell phone open as Megan nodded and headed for her desk, to collect the case summary. The phone rang four times; then went to voice mail. "Don, it's Colby. Just a reminder, we have that 1:30 with Wright. Call me back."

He flipped the phone shut, and shook his head bemusedly. It wasn't like Don to be late for a meeting like this, he thought to himself, as he collected his files. Hopefully, he was on his way up.

Ten minutes into the meeting, that hope was long gone. Megan was doing a nice job with the case summary, but Wright had an irritated set to his mouth that didn't bode well for Don. Colby and David exchanged a slightly worried glance, which morphed into a look of relief and expectation, when Colby's cell phone rang. He pulled it out, expecting to see Don's number displayed, but his brow furrowed as he caught sight of the unfamiliar digits. He flipped it open to answer, rising and muttering an 'excuse me' to Wright as he did. The resulting voice made him freeze mid-turn.

"He's not coming."

"What?" The word spilled out unintentionally, but Colby had the presence of mind to hit the speaker button, and the others fell silent, staring at him.

The voice drifted, tinny, into the room. "Don Eppes won't make your meeting. He's been _detained_." The last word was spoken with mock aplomb, a sneer in the tone.

"Who is this?" demanded Colby, but there was no response, and as he looked at the screen, it displayed 'Call Ended.' "He hung up." He looked at the others, as if expecting some answer for the ominous call. "That voice – it sounded familiar."

"It sounded like Sean Moran," said Megan, her voice resonating with disbelief. "But it couldn't be; he's still in the state hospital."

Wright was frowning as he headed for the door. "Check the number – I'm going to call the hospital director."

Colby nodded and punched in a number on the conference room phone. "Hey, Harry, check out a number for me, will you?" He rattled off the phone number from his cell phone display, and glanced out the door, watching Wright, also with a phone receiver to his ear. Colby looked back at Megan and David, catching their tense expressions, and spoke again. "Yeah, Harry." He frowned. "Okay. Thanks."

He hung up, and looked at Megan and David. "It's a disposable cell."

Wright was coming through the door, his face stern and filled with worry. "I just got the hospital director. Sean Moran escaped this morning, around ten a.m. They reported it out to LAPD – I'd like to know why LAPD didn't call us." He looked at Colby. "You said the last place you saw Don was at his brother's house?" Colby nodded; his face pale. "We need to get over there. And we need someone to pay a visit to Dillon Moran."

He turned without waiting for a response. "I have to make a phone call – I'll catch up with you."

Megan and David were on his heels as Wright passed through the doorway, and Colby was behind them. "Shit," he breathed softly to himself. He could see fear in Megan's and David's faces – the same fear that was undoubtedly reflected in his own.

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At 4:45, Charlie stood on the tarmac of the small Jersey airport, next to the hangar to get out of the biting wind. The Bureau jet was getting fueled and Charlie's bags were being loaded; in a moment he and Agent Decker would board. He eyed the short flight of steps leading into the plane with misgiving – steps meant pain. Movement of any kind meant pain, which he rediscovered as he reached for his cell phone.

He winced as he pulled it from his pocket, flipped it open and hit speed dial. He might as well call Don and let him know that they were planning to take off on schedule. A flicker of disappointment crossed his face as the phone rang, and then went to voice mail. It wasn't unusual for Don not to answer right away; the circumstances of his job didn't always permit it. For some reason, however, Charlie felt an inexplicable twinge of misgiving, of worry; the sense that something bad was about to happen.

He looked up to see Decker walking toward him, waving for him to approach the plane. He put the phone in his pocket, and made his way painfully across the tarmac, trying to shrug off the feeling of impending doom.

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End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Sean Moran tossed back a hit of meth, and paused in his pacing to observe the unconscious agent, tied to the chair. He had to admit, it had been a freaking awesome morning.

It had been a shock to see Jason Walsh at the prison. He remembered him from their Philly days; he was an old acquaintance of Dillon's, and Sean knew that they had business dealings. That was nothing compared to the surprise he'd received when Walsh had murmured that he would be getting out, and followed it with the instructions to go to the rear right corner of the yard.

He'd cut off his bracelet and made it out through the slit in the fence, following Ramon through the underbrush in a torrential downpour, exulting in his freedom, in the rain against his skin. They'd made it to a side road where Ramon had his car stashed, and were on their way minutes after the break. He'd been terrified the police would get a roadblock up before they could get off the road to the hospital, but they'd made the highway without incident. Once they hit the north side of LA, Sean had talked Ramon into stopping and scoring some meth, and they had headed immediately to the warehouse, where Ramon said they had been instructed to wait.

At around 1:00, Walsh had called, and given Sean some directions. He told him to use the disposable cell phone provided by Ramon, and to call one of Eppes' agents, and to let them know that he had Don Eppes. As Sean was receiving the instructions, Ramon tensed at the window, then relaxed and went to open the warehouse door, and several men came in, bearing the unconscious agent himself. It was almost too good to be true, and Sean was so excited he could barely keep his mind on Walsh's words. His brother must have set this up, he thought. Dillon – his hero – had got him out of prison, and was getting revenge, just as Sean had craved all these months, almost as badly as he had craved the meth. It was all coming together, and it was so right, so perfect.

In spite of the almost unbearable excitement, Sean managed to do as he was told. He found a recently received number on Eppes' cell phone, and tried it using the disposable cell, getting Agent Granger on the line. Why Walsh wanted them to know Eppes was in their custody, he had no idea, but he managed to convey that idea without letting on who they were. When he was done, he jotted down the numbers in Eppes' cell phone, as Walsh had asked, and gave it to one of Dillon's men, who left with it. The man would drive, Sean knew, somewhere far away; then dump the phone, in case the agents tried to trace it. Now Sean was pacing the warehouse floor, high on meth, high on the thrill of it all. He couldn't wait to see what else his brother had in store.

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The back door to the Craftsman was unlocked, and Megan, David, and Colby filed in, stepping carefully, examining the scene in the kitchen, with heavy hearts. Unmistakable signs of struggle surrounded them, the table pushed out of the position, chairs askew, one of them broken. Don's SUV still sat in the driveway and his weapon lay in its holster on the counter – further confirmation that Sean Moran's cryptic words meant what they insinuated – that he indeed had their SAC. David knelt to examine a splintered chair leg, lying amidst some spattered drops of blood. Two LAPD officers stepped inside behind them, and Megan turned to them and spoke quietly. "Get out and start hitting the surrounding houses. See if anyone saw anything."

Colby face was imbued with a sickly hue. "It must have happened right after I left. Moran had to have been watching the house."

David rose slowly, and looked at him. "You don't remember anything? A vehicle?"

Colby closed his eyes, trying desperately to recollect what was on the street when he left. "Nothing." He opened them. "There was nothing parked on the street, I know that. He must have pulled into a driveway."

The sound of a car door slamming floated in through the back door, and a moment later, Wright appeared at it, stepping quietly inside; his expression troubled. He glanced at the room and his eyes traveled toward the kitchen door. "Anyone else in here?"

Megan shook her head. "No. I sent the LAPD guys out to canvass houses for witnesses."

Wright shot a glance behind him, and then turned back to them. "What I'm about to tell you does not leave this room. I talked to Dave Maxwell after I left you. A week or two ago, the Philadelphia office initiated an investigation into Dillon Moran's holdings and activities in that area. Based on what Dr. Eppes overheard while he was held captive, we had reason to believe that Dillon Moran had a similar scheme going in Philadelphia; in fact, we believed that the meth house operation in LA was modeled after his business in Philadelphia. In addition, Dave Maxwell had unearthed other evidence that perhaps we had one of our own people involved in that scheme. It was not concrete, but when the Philadelphia office initiated their investigation, Maxwell asked them to discreetly investigate the possibility that a Bureau employee was involved."

He scanned each of their faces. "The Philadelphia office hired a consultant to search out the connections, but decided after a couple of days that he was not moving as fast as they would have liked. In the interest of saving time, we brought Dr. Eppes back in – not to do the work, because that would have been a conflict of interest, but to instruct the other consultant on the principles of the construction of a search program for this type of activity in general. Don was also included in the plan, and provided results from your investigation in LA to the Philly office. Somehow, Moran must have become aware of the investigation. Last night, Dr. Eppes and the other consultant were attacked. Fortunately, we intervened in time to keep them from being seriously hurt, in fact the other consultant escaped unharmed, but Dr. Eppes was moderately injured."

The agents exchanged a glance, and Megan spoke. "Don told us something happened, but he led us to believe it was car accident."

Wright's mouth twisted. "Like I said, this has been a confidential investigation. Today, the program finally provided some results. It indicated a Patrick Conaghan, who was Moran's man that handled the illegal business in Philly, like Lenny Angelo did here. It also indicated, as expected, Dillon Moran – and one Bureau person, Jason Walsh."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the three agents, and a surprised mutter from Colby.

Wright took in their reaction with a dour smile. "Moran and Walsh obviously suspect that the investigation is going on, although we believe that they don't know we've made a connection, or that we now have evidence – otherwise they wouldn't be bothered with trying to take out the consultants; they'd be running instead. We have the other consultant in a safe house in Philadelphia, and Dr. Eppes should be on his way back on a Bureau jet by now. Arrest warrants for Moran and Walsh are being requested as we speak. There is no doubt in my mind that they orchestrated the escape of Sean Moran and the kidnapping of Agent Eppes, but we have no evidence. They have been under surveillance all day. Walsh did visit Sean Moran at the state hospital this morning, but he returned to the hotel before the escape occurred. Our men tell us he's been there ever since, and Moran has been playing tennis at his club for the better part of the day. They have alibis for both the prison break and the kidnapping, so we'll need to rely on the warrants from the Philadelphia investigation for an arrest. Once they know we have them on the Philadelphia meth business, I'm hoping they'll give us Don's location as a bargaining chip."

David spoke slowly, his brow furrowed. "But then they would be admitting to kidnapping, in addition."

Megan shook her head. "Not necessarily. They could claim Sean Moran did the kidnapping, and they found out after the fact."

Wright nodded. "That's precisely what we believe – we think they sprang Sean in order for him take the fall for this. Why else would they take that risk, with everything else going on? They're desperate, but they're also smart. If we didn't have the case break in Philly, we'd have nothing to hold them for."

"Desperate enough to kidnap a federal agent – they had to take him for information," Megan said, looking at Wright for confirmation.

Wright frowned, nodding. "That is the only thing we can think of, although Don didn't know the consultants had broken the case yet. He did get the phone number and location of the new safe house last night, but other than that, he has nothing to give them. Even if he did, we've moved the other consultant again, as a precaution, and we'll put Dr. Eppes under wraps as soon as he lands. There is nothing that Don can provide that will help them."

"But they don't know that," said Colby quietly. "What happens when they find out he doesn't have anything?"

"That's why we're moving to pick up Moran and Walsh now, and hold them until the warrants come in," said Wright, his face grim. "I don't like the alternative."

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Jason's poker game broke up at around 2:00 p.m., primarily because he opted out. He had already created his alibi for the Eppes kidnapping, and he knew that Dillon would be heading out to the warehouse, as they had planned. It was time to get on the road.

He stopped by his room and picked up a jacket with a hood and the car keys for the G6, and stepped out, quietly closing his door. He opted for the stairs, and was heading down the stairwell toward the first floor when the elevator doors opened on his floor, disgorging four LAPD officers, on their way to his room. Blissfully unaware that he had just missed being apprehended, Walsh donned his jacket, put up the hood, and slipped out a side entrance, into the mist. He took the precaution of walking two blocks out of his way and doubling around on a circuitous route to make sure he was not being followed, before he made for the garage and the G6.

He called Dillon on the way, and found that Moran had left the gym, had managed to elude his surveillance, and was en route. Better yet was the fact that Jason would get there before Moran; he wanted to be there to soften Dillon's surprise at Sean's presence. He congratulated himself mentally at having Sean Moran make the phone call after the kidnapping. It had done two things: it had established the time of the kidnapping, which solidified his and Dillon's alibis and allowed them to move sooner, and, if the agents recognized the voice on the other end, it further implicated Sean.

As he pulled down the road to the industrial park, he noted with approval that Dillon's site selection was close to perfect. The cluster of buildings was off the beaten path, accessible by an unpopulated road rimmed with nothing but trees. The complex was new, and most of the buildings appeared to be under construction or waiting to be leased. As he entered the industrial park itself, he saw that only one other business had vehicles in front of it, which he surmised would be leaving soon for the weekend – it was 2:30 on a Friday afternoon. In any event, that business was at the other end of the complex, not even within view of the warehouse where they held Eppes – and more importantly, not within earshot.

He pulled into the gravel parking area in front of the building, and the door to the warehouse swung open as he approached. Ramon held it for him, and Walsh's keen eyes swept the room as he entered. The first thing that caught his eyes was Eppes. The agent, now conscious, was tied securely to a chair, and his look of stunned surprise at Jason's appearance gave Walsh a surge of relief. Eppes obviously didn't know that he was involved, which meant that the consultants still had not made that connection – that their programming must not be done. That meant that all of this was worth it – they still had time to find Dr. Eppes and his counterpart, take them out, and destroy their work.

The second thing that Walsh noticed, with disgust, was that Sean Moran was already as high as a kite. He was pacing excitedly, his eyes glittering, and he strode forward as Jason entered, a stream of excited questions tumbling from his mouth. Before Jason could begin to decipher them, Ramon moved to open the door again, and Sean's attention was immediately diverted, as Dillon entered the room.

Sean flew toward his brother, enveloping him in a fierce embrace, which Dillon, in shock, returned as Sean babbled. "I knew you'd get me out of there, man – I knew it! And you got Eppes – you're gonna let me do him, right? And we're gonna get the brother too. You gotta give them to me. What are we doin' – where are we goin' after here? I can do Mexico – I heard-"

"Sean!" exclaimed Dillon sharply, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him a little. "Slow down, take a breath." He looked at Jason, bewildered. "What the hell is this, Walsh?"

Jason smiled, well aware that Eppes was watching them warily. "Let's just say I had an opportunity to do you a favor. I knew how much you hated having him in that place."

Dillon looked at him suspiciously, but didn't pursue the conversation; Jason was sure he didn't care to discuss the issue in front of his brother. Instead he looked at Sean, and murmured, "Already on the stuff, Seanie boy? You couldn't wait even a couple of hours."

Sean's face fell, and he whined, "You don't know what it's like, Dillon. Anyway, I just did it to celebrate." He grinned suddenly, a mercurial change of expression. "I'm gonna go clean after this – you'll see – I'm just partying a little." He looked at Don, and licked his lips. "What are we gonna do with the fed?"

Moran glanced at Walsh, and then moved forward, pacing slowly, deliberately toward Don, stopping in front of him. "That depends on how willing he is to cooperate."

Don stared back at him, his jaw set. When he'd woken a half hour ago, still groggy, his head throbbing, he'd had a hard time piecing coherent thoughts together. Even when his head became clear, the situation hadn't – he couldn't fathom how Sean Moran had pulled off his own escape and a kidnapping – the man didn't have the mental firepower, Don was sure. The appearance of Walsh was a shock, but that and the entrance of Dillon pulled it all together. Dillon and Walsh were in this together, and this was their doing, not Sean's. Walsh – he should have known. All along there were elements to the case that pointed to someone with high level access to government records.

He twisted his bound hands behind him, and Dillon smiled with amusement as he watched.

"We really have only one question, Agent Eppes," he said softly. "We can make this quick. Where is your brother?"

Don returned his gaze, with eyes as dark and hard as agates. "At a math conference in Atlanta."

The smile left Dillon's face, as Jason and Sean stepped up behind him. "Don't be stupid, agent. You _will_ tell us, trust me – it's just a matter of how hard you want to make this. We know you're in on what he's doing, and we know he's in a safe house in Philadelphia. Where is it?"

"I don't know," Don retorted. He turned his head as Moran lifted his arm, but Dillon's backhand still caught him squarely on the side of the face, and he tasted blood, felt it drip out of the corner of his mouth and down his chin.

Dillon bent forward, his face white with anger. "Where is he?"

Don turned his head and smiled, viciously, his eyes locked on Dillon's. "Fuck you, Moran."

Dillon's hand shot out, he grabbed Don by the neck, and drove a fist into his unprotected gut, his chest heaving with anger. "You want to play that game, then fine, Eppes. My brother will be more than happy to have a chance to convince you."

Don gasped, trying to catch his breath, as Dillon stepped back, and Sean moved forward, his eyes gleaming with hate. He barely managed to suck in a breath, before a fist exploded in his solar plexus, making stars whirl in front of him. Through the pain, he clung to one thought. The clock on the warehouse wall read 2:45 p.m. Charlie would be in LA in a few hours, was already in the air – and there was no way he could let them know that. The longer he could hold out, the longer he could keep them occupied, the less chance they would have to find out that his brother would soon be within their reach. He closed his eyes, as Sean's fist found his left eye socket, and lights exploded in his brain. _Had to hold out, had to hold out…_

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End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: A brief commercial pause to recognize my wonderful betas, Alice I and FraidyCat._

**Chapter 15**

Charlie glanced up idly as Decker spoke. "Yeah."

The agent was seated across the aisle on the small jet, one row back, and had put his cell phone to his ear. Charlie turned back to his laptop screen, and rubbed his forehead wearily. The jet was quiet, and the roar of the engines and the wind was muted, but the background noise, on top of the long night before, was making him drowsy. He was glad his part in this job was over, glad to be getting back to LA. It would be good to see Don – it would be dinnertime when he landed, maybe they could grab a bite somewhere, have a beer, catch up…

Those thoughts came to an abrupt halt as Decker appeared in the aisle next to him. He hadn't even realized the agent had stopped talking; he'd tuned out the conversation. Decker sank into a seat across the aisle, his expression sober. "Dr. Eppes, there's been a development that you need to know about."

Charlie turned toward him, trying to read his expression. "Yes?"

Decker paused uncomfortably for a split second. "That was Dave Maxwell. He just informed me that your brother is missing, and presumed kidnapped."

Charlie's mind went blank, and the roaring sound of the engines suddenly seemed to increase, filling his ears, his brain. "Wh-what?" he stammered.

Decker looked at the pale face, the stunned expression, with sympathy. "He didn't show up for a meeting as planned this afternoon. His team got a call a short time later that indicated he was being held. We think Walsh and Moran are behind it, and that they're trying to get information on you and Willy from your brother."

Charlie's eyes left Decker's face, and his head turned slowly until his gaze was resting blankly on the carpeting in the aisle. No wonder Don hadn't answered his phone – he had probably been taken, was being held even then…He felt suddenly nauseous, and he swallowed, and looked back at Decker. "How do they know it's Walsh and Moran – how do they know it's not some kind of joke?"

"The team said the voice on the phone sounded like Sean Moran."

"That's impossible," protested Charlie. "Sean Moran is in a state hospital for the criminally insane."

Decker shook his head. "He escaped this morning." He wouldn't have thought it possible, but the young man in front of him turned even paler. "Don had been at your home, and they found his SUV still there, and signs of a struggle. Walsh is actually in L.A. right now, and he and Dillon Moran have disappeared. We have orders to take you to a safe house as soon as we land." He put a comforting hand on Charlie's arm. "They're doing everything possible to find your brother."

Charlie looked at him, a trace of hope dawning on his face. "They have leads?"

Decker face fell, and his mouth twisted ruefully. "Not yet. They're working it." He gave Charlie's arm a pat. "I know this is hard, but try to relax. There's nothing we can do here. We'll tie in and get an update when we get to the safe house."

He rose and went back to his seat, leaving Charlie to stare numbly at his laptop. Relax? How in the hell was he supposed to do that? His stomach was in a knot, and a sick weight pressed on his chest. Don had been kidnapped by men who had already tried to kill them both, and would think nothing of ending his life. Worse yet, his brother had been taken because of him; because of the case he was working. Charlie had a sudden flash of insight into what Don had been feeling when he had been kidnapped – the feeling that he was responsible – that it was his fault. He understood all of it now – why Don had fought to keep him from consulting. It was, without question, the worst feeling in the world. His brother would die, and it was his fault.

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Dillon put a restraining hand on Sean's shoulder, and regarded the agent in the chair. "Enough."

Don Eppes slumped forward against his bonds, his head rolling, barely conscious. Sean had attacked him in a meth-induced frenzy, kicking, punching, beating mercilessly until his own hands bled – to no avail. Eppes was refusing to talk, and had most likely gone past the limit where he could speak coherently, even if he wanted to. Sean pulled back reluctantly, breathing heavily, his hands clenching and unclenching. "I want to kill him. Let me kill him – for Tommy."

Dillon shook his head. "We still need him." He glanced at Walsh. "I think it's time to go to plan B."

Walsh nodded. "I agree." He glanced at Don's face, bruised, bloody and already swelling. "A picture would be appropriate, I think."

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A buzz in Charlie's pocket startled him out of his despairing musings, and as he pulled out his cell phone, he frowned in confusion at the unfamiliar number. He flipped the phone open and answered, fumbling a little. "Charles Eppes."

"Listen carefully. Hang up, get somewhere that you can talk, and call this number back."

At the words, Charlie's heart gave a frightening contraction, and his jaw dropped. The voice was unmistakable – he recognized it from his phone meeting a few weeks ago. Jason Walsh. The phone went dead, and he said into it, "I think you have a wrong number," and lowered it from his ear with an unsteady hand. He put the phone back in his pocket, unclasped his seat belt, set his laptop aside, and rose slowly. Decker was eyeing him curiously.

"Who was that?"

"Wrong number," Charlie managed, avoiding his eyes. "The restroom's in the back, right?" Decker nodded and looked back down at the file he was reading, and Charlie moved slowly past him, on lead legs.

He stepped into the restroom and locked the door, hastily pulled out the cell phone and dialed; his heart pounding. "It's Charlie Eppes," he said when the line connected.

Walsh's voice came over the line. "If you value your brother's life, you will follow directions, and speak to no one. Can you be overheard?"

Charlie froze for a moment; Walsh's second sentence not registering. "I want to speak to Don." he stammered.

"Get a grip, Dr. Eppes." Walsh's voice was harsh, impatient. "Can you be overheard?"

Charlie collected himself, just barely. "No. No one can hear me."

On the other end, Walsh frowned as the sound of the jet engines drifted over the line. "Where are you?"

"I'm on a plane," Charlie hedged. The noise would make that obvious, but he wasn't about to reveal where he was headed.

"You're returning to LA?" Charlie hesitated, and Walsh spoke angrily. "Listen, Eppes, we have your brother. You need to be straight with me, or he pays, do you understand?"

Charlie's felt his gut twist. "Yes. I'm on my way back."

"Does that mean you finished your analysis?"

Charlie paused for just a moment, thinking furiously. If Walsh realized that they were already done – that Dave Maxwell already knew that Walsh was a part of this, then he would have no reason to keep Don alive. "N-no. I gave their consultant some direction. He's doing all the work – he has a lot do yet. I couldn't do the work myself – conflict of interest."

Walsh pondered that for a moment, and he glanced at Moran, who was watching him intently, listening to the conversation. He originally was going to simply have Eppes tell him where the safe house was; he hadn't thought that the professor might not be there any longer. He still needed that location, so they could take out the other consultant, but they would now have to take care of Dr. Eppes in LA. "I need to know where he is."

Charlie could feel desperation rising inside. He needed to gain leverage somehow. He spoke firmly. "Not until I know my brother is safe. I need to see that he's been released; then I'll give you what you want. You'll have to wait until I get in to LA tonight. I land at around 6:30 p.m. your time."

Walsh could feel rage and impatience welling up inside him, and he fought it down. The professor was trying to gain control of the situation, and he needed to get it back. If he played along, however, he could manage to take care of the professor, too. "Very well, Doctor," he said, his teeth clenched, "you listen to me. When you land, you will call me, and I will direct you where to go. You will tell no one – we will be watching, and if we see that you are accompanied by anyone, your brother will die. If they have men assigned to you, you will need to ditch them. Do you understand?"

Charlie felt his momentary bravado fading. "Yes. I understand. Can I talk to him?"

Triumph glinted in Walsh's eyes as he heard uncertainty return to the professor's voice. He was back in command. "Later. When you land. In the meantime, I'll send you a picture. Call this number as soon as you are free."

The line disconnected, and Charlie stared at the phone blankly, his heart thumping, his mouth dry. It beeped, showing an incoming picture, and Charlie opened it immediately, biting back a moan. It was Don, but he was nearly unrecognizable; one eye swollen shut, his face battered and blood-streaked. There was a pounding on the door, and he shakily closed the picture and tucked the phone in his pocket, as Decker's voice came from outside. "Dr. Eppes, are you all right in there?"

Charlie glanced in the lavatory mirror, and a pale, bruised, wide-eyed apparition stared back at him. He composed his features as much as he could, opened the door and looked out. "I just wasn't feeling very well. I'm okay now." He pushed past Decker, unsteadily, head down.

Decker watched him make his way to his seat. Truthfully, the professor didn't look very well, but then he wouldn't either, he reflected; if he'd just been told his brother had been kidnapped. He glanced at his watch. Another hour and a half, and they'd be in LA.

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Colby regarded Megan through the glass of the conference room, frowning. She was seated at the table, her elbows propped on it, her face in her hands. He stepped forward and pushed open the door, and she immediately straightened and dropped her hands. She was dry-eyed, but she looked exhausted, traumatized. His face softened. "Are you okay?"

She nodded; then shook her head. "Yes. No – I don't know." She rubbed her face with one hand, and looked up at him, with desperation in her face. "I just can't do this anymore, Colby. First, Charlie, now Don. I can't do this."

He came forward and sat beside her, and she didn't wait for him to reply. "It's not just this – I've been struggling with the job for a while. But lately – having to head up the investigation into Charlie's kidnapping, and now with Don gone…," she trailed off, and shook her head dejectedly. "I feel like I'm letting him down. We have no clue as to where they are – nothing, and I don't know where to go from here."

"You aren't alone," Colby reminded her. "We're all assigned to this, not just you. There are a ton of people working this."

She smiled at him, sadly. "I know. It's just that I know Wright has me in charge of the team in Don's absence, and I feel responsible." She sighed. "I used to think I wanted my own team – now I'm not so sure. I think I care too much about the people I work with to be able to do this job right."

Colby sent her a subdued smile. "Since when is that a crime?" he asked. "If you ask me, you do just fine."

She looked back, gratefully. "Thanks." She glanced at the clock. "Charlie will be landing at Burbank soon with Agent Decker. You and David were going to meet them at the airport, right?"

Colby nodded. "Yeah."

Her face turned pensive again. "Make sure you get Alan's cell phone number from him. I need to call him, and let him know what's going on. I have no idea where he even is, except that he's out of town."

Colby nodded again and rose, squeezing her shoulder. "Hang in there. We'll get him back."

She watched him go, then straightened her shoulders and stood. She felt drained to the point of lifelessness, without the energy to think straight. Somehow, though, she needed to find the strength to do this. She couldn't let Don down. She lifted her head, set her jaw, and walked purposefully from the conference room.

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Don groaned as his one good eye flickered open, and he shifted on the cold tile floor. For a moment he couldn't remember what had happened, why he hurt so badly, why he was lying in this awkward position on the floor, but as the figures of Jason Walsh and Dillon Moran registered on his retina, his situation came back to him. Not a good situation, not a good one, at all.

He must have passed out in the chair, he reflected. They had dragged him to a spot on the floor between some pallets loaded with boxes; they rose on either side of him, like towers. His hands were bound behind him, and his feet were secured also; he was lying on his side, facing the center of the room. That portion of the room was empty of boxes; it contained a table and two desks, and was spotlighted by a single row of lights hanging from the ceiling. They shone down on Moran's and Walsh's features as they sat at the table, making them look harsh and ugly. The light was waning outside; fall twilight came early, and it was already dark inside the warehouse. He could see no sign of the other men – the Hispanic man or Sean. Boxes were stacked around the center of the room on pallets, in tall formations casting inky shadows, and behind them lay darkness, and more boxes.

He could feel the pain of his injuries, aching, throbbing, unrelenting. His face hurt, his chest hurt, his lower left leg was pulsing with pain. It had been kicked, he remembered, forced back against the chair, and he had felt something give – a bone maybe? He was sure his ribs had been fractured, and it felt difficult to breathe.

Sean Moran came into view suddenly from behind the boxes, still pacing with frenetic energy, and he approached the table. "It's six-thirty," he said impatiently. "The professor's supposed to be here – he's supposed to call, right?"

Walsh regarded him with undisguised irritation, but Dillon spoke calmly. "Patience, Seanie-boy. He's probably just landing now, and we need to give him a chance to get clear. He'll call."

"I get him, too, right?" Sean said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and scratching his arm. He grinned. "I'm gonna beat the crap out of him too, and then I'm gonna kill 'em both. He's comin' here, right?"

Dillon nodded. "Yes – Jason instructed him to come alone. You can help us get what we need from him. I'm sure he'll be a little easier to crack than his brother."

Don felt his gut twist at the words. Walsh must have talked to Charlie – he didn't remember that; he must have been too out of it when it happened. Surely Charlie wouldn't listen to them, he thought desperately. He had to know that in spite of what they'd told him, he needed to bring in help – to call in the team. In the back of his mind though, he knew he'd set a bad example. When Charlie had been kidnapped, his brother hadn't let him know where he was when he had the chance, because he'd been afraid that Don would come for him alone. Don knew that showing up solo was something that Charlie would think that he would do – how had he put it? Something about "going all Superman on him." He could only hope that Charlie would have the sense to know that this was different – he wasn't a trained agent, and he would be facing several captors, not just one.

Inside though, he had an awful fear. He'd just taken the beating of his life in order to keep them from knowing where Charlie was, and he was now facing the possibility that his brother, out of a misplaced sense of heroics, might come to them. "Don't be stupid, Buddy," he whispered to himself, and it occurred to him that it might be the first time he'd used that phrase. "Please, don't be stupid."

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End Chapter 15


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all -_

**Chapter 16**

The jet touched down with just a light jolt on the runway, and Charlie clutched his laptop. He'd already packed up; trying not to look too anxious, too eager to move, although he knew he probably was failing at that. Fortunately, the fact that he knew about his brother's kidnapping made that anxiety seem normal. Decker could hardly blame him for looking tense, fearful.

The prolonged period of sitting had made him even stiffer, and he descended the steps of the jet awkwardly, biting his lip as his ribs complained. As he reached the ground and looked toward the terminal, he could see two familiar figures approaching, and his heart fell. He not only had to get away from Decker, he had to give Colby and David the slip, too, somehow. How in the hell was he going to do this? A man waited at the bottom of the steps with his suitcase, which he handed to Decker, as Colby and David stepped up to them and introduced themselves to the Philadelphia agent.

"Hey, Charlie." Their greetings were subdued, and he could see the concern in their expressions.

"Any word?" Charlie asked, although he could already see in their faces that there wasn't.

David shook his head, regretfully. "Not yet. They've pulled out all the stops, though. Our office, LAPD, they're all on it." He glanced at Charlie as they walked toward the terminal, trying to look reassuring. "We'll find him. First, we're going to get you to a safe place."

Charlie nodded, not meeting his eyes. They stepped in through the door of the terminal, were waved through by an airport employee, and began moving down the concourse. Burbank was a small airport, and they would be through it in moments, Charlie knew. Once he was in a car with the agents, his chances of getting away undetected would drop precipitously. They were approaching a restroom, he noted, and he stalled for time. "I need to use the restroom," he murmured, and the agents nodded.

"Go ahead," said Colby. "We'll catch up with Agent Decker, here."

"Hold up," said David, and he headed into the restroom for a quick check. No one was in it, except a geriatric wisp of a man with white hair, and he stepped back out. "Okay."

Charlie set his computer bag down at Colby's feet. "I might be a minute," he said quietly. "I'm not feeling too well."

Colby looked at him sympathetically, taking in the pale face, the ugly bruises, the pinched look of fatigue and worry. "Take your time," he said gently.

Charlie pushed through the door and nodded at the older man who was shuffling out past him, who fixed an age-clouded eye on Charlie's bruised face, and sidled away a little. The restroom walls jutted out into the concourse, and as the man opened the door, Charlie looked back over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of the three agents clustered a few yards away. If he could slip out of the door without them seeing him, he could duck around the corner just a few feet from the door, and make it the better part of the way down the concourse. He could probably get enough of a start to get outside.

The problem was; he had no idea how to make sure they weren't looking when he came out. David had checked out the restroom, but even though he knew the old man was in there, he looked as the door had opened and the man came out. Any movement around that door would catch their attention. Charlie stepped further into the room. There was a metal door against the wall, which he found to be locked when he tried it – it was most likely a supply closet with no access to the outside. There was a window, but it was high up, and was merely a thick pane of frosted glass set into the wall, with no way to open it. There was no way out, except for the door that led back out into the concourse.

He thought a moment, and stepped back toward the door, cracking it just enough to see back down the concourse the way they had come. They'd come in at Gate 8, he noted, and in front of it, he could see man in a red jacket with a bag, pacing back and forth. He shut the door again, pulled out his cell phone and dialed information. "I'd like the number for the Burbank Airport, please."

The voice on the other end delivered, and offered to put him through to the number. "Burbank Airport," said a pleasant female voice on the other end, as the connection was made. "Are you calling to check flight arrivals or departures?"

"No," said Charlie. He took a deep breath. "There's a man in a red jacket near Gate 8. He looks very suspicious – I think he might have something in his bag." He snapped the phone shut, and opened the door again, just a crack. Down the corridor, he saw a security guard put a radio to his ear, and then make his way toward the man, who responded angrily, and clutched his bag as the guard tried to pull it from him. The man started to yell, and the three agents' heads turned at the sound of the ensuing pandemonium. Charlie seized his chance, opening the restroom door, and slipped out and around the corner, heading at a trot down the corridor, which turned sharply toward the exit. Fortunately, it was not too far away; Charlie knew that the scene might arouse the agents' suspicion. Their first move would be to check the restroom, and to try to get him out of the airport. He had only seconds, and he moved quickly, ignoring his aching ribs.

Word of the man with the suspicious bag must have been communicated to the rest of the staff, guards were stopping passengers coming in through the security checkpoint, and waving through any exiting passengers, hurriedly, trying to clear the facility; and Charlie joined the throng, pushing out into the airport entrance. He shot a glance over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Colby, David and Brad Decker coming around the corner of the restroom down the corridor at a run, just as he pushed through the glass door to the outside, and dashed for a cab, heedless of the pain in his side. He was fairly certain they hadn't seen him in the crowd, but he wasn't about to wait to find out. He reached for the taxi door handle just in front of a large, beefy-looking man, who yelled indignantly as Charlie jumped in and slammed the door shut with an involuntary grunt of pain. He gave the cab driver his home address, along with a breathless admonition to hurry, and the cab bulled its way from the curb, cutting off a car coming up behind it.

Colby, David and Decker paused in the entrance, scanning the crowd streaming through the doors, shooting a quick glance further down to the ticket counters, which were already nearly empty.

"I don't see him," said Decker. "I'm going to go back in and check the concourse." He flipped his badge at a nervous-looking checkpoint operator, and pushed through, jogging back against the now dwindling stream of passengers.

"Are you sure he wasn't in there?" asked David, as he and Colby pushed out through the exit, scanning the milling, anxious crowd on the sidewalk, which was already dispersing, people running, walking, trying to distance themselves from the terminal.

"No," replied Colby, a little impatiently. "I looked in every stall, even tried the closet door. He wasn't there."

David looked around them, and his shoulders sagged in frustration. "Well, he isn't here, either." They looked at each other, and back at the crowd.

"Where in the hell could he have gone?" muttered Colby. He had a sick feeling in his gut; he couldn't quite understand what had just happened, but he knew it wasn't good.

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Charlie calculated the tip, and thrust some bills at the driver, well over what was required, and jumped from the cab with a wince. As he moved toward the Craftsman, he noted that Don's SUV was still in the driveway, and was blocking his Prius. He trotted toward it, noting with disappointment that the keys weren't in it; he hoped fervently that they were in the house.

As he moved toward the front door, he pulled out his cell phone and called the last number on it. It connected as he put his key in the lock. "It's Charles Eppes. I'm back in L.A., and I'm away from the agents assigned to me." He pushed the front door open, and stepped inside, closing it quickly, and flicking on a light.

This time, it was Dillon Moran's voice that floated out of the earpiece. "Write down this address."

"Just a minute," Charlie said, hurrying toward the dining room table. He snatched a page of a test on probability theorems and flipped it over, grabbing a pencil. "Okay." He jotted down the address as Dillon spoke, and then straightened, grimacing at the movement.

"Here's the drill," said Moran. "You are to show up at this address, and we will meet you with your brother." He had, in fact, given the professor the address of the warehouse, but it would be better if Dr. Eppes thought that they weren't there yet. The more off-guard he was when they met, the better. "You give us what we want, the name and location of the other consultant, and you walk, along with your brother. Of course, if either of you talk to the authorities afterward, you'll be facing charges that you aided us by giving us the information. In addition, if we find that you did that, we will not rest until we get to you both, and anyone you care about. Do you understand?"

Charlie swallowed. "Yes."

"Where are you now?"

"Pasadena."

"It will take you between thirty and forty minutes to get there. We'll be waiting. Don't think of bringing anyone with you – we'll be watching the route in."

"Wait!" exclaimed Charlie, "you said I could talk to…" He broke off, as the line disconnected, and stood for a moment, his heart pounding, trying to gather his thoughts. He had no delusions that they would keep their word – he didn't trust them. He had no real plan either, other than giving them a bogus name and location for the other consultant, and hoping they would buy it long enough for him to get Don out of there. One thing was certain, he would show up armed.

He stuck the paper in his pocket and turned, heading for the basement. Pushing through the door of the kitchen and flicking on the light, he stopped in shock at the sight of the scattered kitchen furniture, the broken chair, the trash bag half-open, disgorging trash. He wondered for a moment what had happened, but when he caught sight of the splintered chair leg and the drops of blood on the floor, his stomach lurched as the realization struck him. Don had been kidnapped right here, right at the house.

A sudden overwhelming wave of panic hit him, and he lunged for the sink, vomiting into it, a choked cry of pain escaping as his cracked ribs protested. His brother was helpless, captive, beaten – and waiting for him. He was it, Don's only hope of rescue, and he had never felt more pitiful and inadequate in his life. He turned the water on and spit, then splashed his face and gave the sink a cursory rinse. Shutting off the tap, he forced himself to move unsteadily to the basement door, and down the steps. He barely noticed that the basement had been tidied up, the boxes stacked back against the wall, as he knelt, trembling, in front of the safe, and paused, his heart dropping. He couldn't remember the damn combination.

He could feel the panic rising again, along with frustration, and he took a deep breath, and desperately willed himself to calm down. He'd memorized that combination years ago; he had no trouble recalling it just days before. It took three deep breaths before it came back to him, and he fumbled his way through it, opening the door and removing his pistol and the extra clip, making sure both were loaded. He'd skirted the law at the airport with his recommendation that security check out the man in the red jacket, but now he was actually about to break one; carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.

Upstairs again, he looked at the counter. Dimly, as he staggered away from it on his way to the basement, he remembered seeing keys, and they were there – someone, either Don himself or perhaps an investigator, must have brought in Don's keys from the SUV. He snatched them from the counter and went out through the back door, climbing stiffly into Don's vehicle. The sun had set, and it was dark now, and starting to rain again.

He'd originally just intended to back out the SUV, park it near the curb and take the Prius, but as he reached the street, he paused. Don's vehicle had a lot more engine, more speed than his car. It was a better choice, and so he put it into drive and took one last look at the Craftsman, before he pulled away, into the night.

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Wright's eyes bored into the miserable faces of the three agents facing him across the table of the conference room. A check of the phone number belonging to the caller who had started the pandemonium at the airport had turned up Charlie's cell phone, sealing the agents' suspicion that Charlie had indeed escaped on his own.

"I can't believe you three let a math professor give you the slip." Wright shook his head in disgust and rose, and moving around the table, headed for the door. "Reeves, you're in charge – I need to report this out to Maxwell. Let me know when you get a trace on his phone."

Megan nodded, glancing up only briefly from her bent position over the technician's shoulder. She looked back as the technician pointed and exclaimed, "There, I've got it – there's the first blip, east of Pasadena. We'll get another one in a few minutes."

Colby, David and Decker rose to their feet and clustered around the tech and the monitor; as Megan flipped open her cell phone. "Come on, Charlie, pick up," she said softly, though clenched teeth.

The call went through to voice mail, and she raised her voice to speaking level. "Charlie, this is Megan. You need to call me back. Whatever you're doing, we can help you. Call me back." She waited for a moment to see if Charlie would pick up; then flipped her phone shut with a sigh. "We'll wait for the next blip to check his direction," she said; "then we'll head out."

"I think he was talking to someone in the restroom on the plane," said Decker. "He got a quick phone call right before he went in, said it was a wrong number. I'll bet it was Moran and Walsh."

They sat silently for a moment. "I still can't believe Charlie wouldn't call us in on this," said Colby quietly. "He's gotta know better."

Megan's mouth twisted, wryly. "Frankly, he's not acting any differently than his brother. There was no doubt in my mind that if Don had known where Charlie was being held when he was kidnapped, he would have ditched us too. It must be genetic." Her words were light, but her tone wasn't – it resonated with tension.

Another marker appeared on the screen, and the technician pointed. "Still moving due east, headed northeast of LA."

"All right, we'll call in for updates," said Megan, slinging on her shoulder holster as she moved toward the door. "Let's go." She paused a moment, looking at Decker. "Are you in on this, agent?"

"Yeah, you bet I'm in," replied Decker firmly. He returned her gaze steadily as she gave him an assessing stare.

"Okay, Decker," she said, turning from the door, following Colby and David. "You can ride with me."

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End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

_A/N: Sorry for the delay - RL really intruded the last few days. Here's 17 -_

**Chapter 17**

Charlie's cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat of the SUV, and he grabbed it, glancing at the number. It was Megan again, and he hesitated for just a moment before setting it down next to his pistol. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, peering through the rain into the dark, hurtling down Highway 210 toward Asuza. According to Don's GPS, he'd have plenty of time to get there, but he was driven by unbearable anxiety, which somehow seemed to be weighing on his right foot.

The SUV hit a transition for an overpass and bounced, and Charlie and the pistol on the passenger seat bounced with it. He suddenly felt foolish in the big vehicle, like a pint-sized Rambo packing heat. Who in the hell did he think he was, anyway? He was way out of his league, here. He felt a surge of despair – he didn't know what to do. Would Don's chances really be better if he came alone? He glanced at the cell phone again; and suddenly snatched it from the seat and dialed voicemail.

Megan's voice came on again, pleading with him to call her, the message this time a little more pointed. "_Come on, Charlie, pick up. We have a trace on your phone, and we're on our way behind you right now. Don't do anything stupid – you'll never forgive yourself if Don gets hurt – you know that. Call me back."_

Damn – they were tracking him. He glanced nervously in his rear view mirror, wondering how far back they were. They were forcing his hand. He hated to get rid of the cell phone; he might need it to contact Moran or Walsh again, but if he really intended to go in alone, that was what he needed to do, or they would trace him there. A sudden thought occurred to him, and it stirred a bit of hope in his gut. What if he went in alone, but the team knew where he was and could come in after him, if it turned out that he and Don needed help? It might be a plan he could control even if the agents behind him didn't agree – if he could keep ahead of them by a certain margin, they would have no choice. However, for that, he needed to know where they were.

He lifted the cell phone again, found the last received number, and hit dial. Megan answered immediately. "Charlie."

"Yeah, I'm here." He couldn't keep the sheepish tone out of his voice; he felt like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"They contacted you?"

"Yes. Moran and Walsh - they told me where to meet them. They said if I gave them information, they'd let Don go."

"Charlie, you know they're lying."

"I know that," he replied with exasperation, "but I didn't have much of a choice. They said they'd kill Don if I didn't give them what they want."

"Which is?"

"The location and name of the other consultant. They think he's still working on the program – they don't realize it's already done. I was going to give them a fake name and location."

Megan's voice turned cutting, decisive. "Okay, Charlie, you need to take yourself out of this. Give us the address of the meeting place."

"No."

There was a stunned silence, and then Megan spoke again, her voice rising. "Charlie, don't be crazy! You'll get yourself killed, along with Don. Give us the address, and we'll take care of it – we'll get Don out of there."

"I can't take that chance," said Charlie stubbornly. The rain was lessening, and he peered ahead. The exit for Highway 39 was approaching; he needed to take it north. "They told me to come alone, and they said they'd have people watching to make sure I did. You need to let me go in first and scope it out. If we don't come out right away, you can come in after us."

"Charlie, that's not acceptable."

"Well, that's how it's going to be."

Megan paused for a moment, and stared at her cell phone, taken aback. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought it was Don on the phone. Apparently, stubbornness was genetic, also. She'd had Decker drive; she was well aware he was watching her, and she flushed a little. It was a bit embarrassing to be talked down by a mild-mannered professor. Charlie's voice came through the earpiece, and she put the phone back to her ear. "What?"

"I said; I need to know where you are."

"Tell us where you're going first," she demanded.

"I'm not going to do that until I know where you are. If you can't do that, I'm going to toss the phone."

Megan gritted her teeth. If Charlie didn't get killed doing this, she swore, she was going to do it herself. "We just got on 210 East near Pasadena. I'm guessing we're only about fifteen minutes behind you."

Fifteen minutes – it would have to be far enough. Charlie manipulated the wheel one-handed, and the SUV veered for the exit ramp. "I'm getting off on 39 North. The address is about 10 miles up 39, and then right on Madre Hills Road. The GPS says it's called the Sierra Distribution Center – it sounds like a warehouse. I'm going in first – I'll turn my cell phone on first, and try to keep it on. I've got a gun," he added, almost as an afterthought.

'_Oh, that's comforting_,' thought Megan, rolling her eyes. "Charlie, you're probably better off without that. Don't give them any reason to shoot at you. Better yet, just wait for us." The phone went dead, and she groaned. "He's as obstinate as his brother."

Decker eyed her sympathetically. "Yeah, I kind of picked up on that."

"Just step on it," she muttered, as she dialed Colby. "I need to fill in Granger and Sinclair."

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Highway 39 North proved to be slower going. Charlie rapidly left the outskirts of Asuza and was soon bouncing and swerving along two-lane highway that twisted through the hills. There was very little out this way, and Charlie was grateful the rain had ended; it was dark and hard enough to see. The road seemed deserted; he kept shooting quick glances in his rearview mirror, but saw nothing. After fifteen minutes, he reached Madre Hills Road, which led to the warehouse and turned right, and although it was narrower and had no berm, he barely slackened speed. He was nearly there, and had just passed a metal storage shed illuminated by a security light, when he saw the car.

It was a dark sedan, pulled off on a gravel drive just past the shed, and as Charlie flashed past, he caught a glimpse of figure in the front seat. His heart jumped painfully, and he fumbled for his cell phone, flipping it open as fat drops of rain began to hit the windshield again, and hit dial.

"Megan, where are you?"

Megan tensed at the panic in Charlie's voice. "Right behind you, Charlie. We just turned off 39 onto Madre Hills Road. What's wrong?"

"You need to pull off, right away. There's a storage shed with a light partway down on the right side, and there's a man in dark sedan on a little drive just past it, watching the road. If you come in behind me, he'll see you."

"Roger that," he heard, and the line disconnected. She was actually listening to him, he realized with surprise. She had to be dialing Colby and David.

The rain was increasing now, the fat drops had turned into something resembling sheets, and he slowed. The GPS said he was almost at the warehouse, and he reached for the lights. If he turned them off, in this rain, they might not hear him come in. Of course, then he wouldn't be able to see, either. It then occurred to him it didn't matter – undoubtedly, the man in the sedan had told them he was arriving. He slowed to a creep, and as he caught sight of the drive to his left, pulled into it.

He wound through the dark buildings until he reached the end of the complex. He didn't need to see the sign to know it was the Sierra Distribution Center – it was the only building that was illuminated, although the light shining through the windows was dim. He pulled the SUV up and squinted through the windshield, trying to get a look at the building, but the rain was making that difficult. He could see it was a corrugated metal structure, like many of the others in the industrial park, and he made out a door next to the window, which was flanked by large garage doors for delivery trucks.

His heart was hammering now, and his mouth dry. He slipped off his jacket and wrapped it around the Smith & Wesson to keep it from the rain, and opened the SUV door.

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The agents pulled off up the road, as Megan conversed with David on the cell phone. She could barely see their vehicle parked behind her; it was raining that hard. Ahead, she could make out a light, a faint glow, on the right side of the road – presumably the security light for the shed that Charlie had seen.

David's voice came through her phone. "Okay, we've got it. Colby and I are going to go ahead on foot, and try to take the guy out."

"Right," responded Megan, tersely. She tamped down the urge to tell them hurry – they knew that. Seconds later, two dark figures slipped by her vehicle on either side, and were swallowed just yards ahead by the darkness and pouring rain.

"I could have gone with them," said Decker, frowning, peering out through the windshield.

Megan shook her head. "If something happens to them, I'll need you with me at the warehouse." She punched in Wright's number, and spoke into the phone as he answered. "Sir, we're near the location, and it would be good to have some backup, but they have to come in quietly." She gave him the address. "Have them pull one mile down Madre Hills Road and wait for my command. Better send a couple of buses, too, from the nearest hospital – same restrictions." She disconnected quickly, before Wright could ask too many questions. She didn't want to explain how she'd failed to talk Charlie out of going in ahead of them, and she didn't have the time – she needed to focus on the situation at hand.

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Colby and David splashed through the downpour, running full out until they reached the shed. The FBI windbreakers and their flak jackets offered some protection from the rain, but their lower body was already drenched, shoes and pants soaked with cold rain. They left the road at the shed, and plunged into the wooded area around it, skirting the building and the light, and creeping through the woods on the other side. After a few yards of woods, they reached the gravel road, and could make out the dim outline of the dark sedan.

"Okay?" asked David, quietly. They'd worked together long enough that the single word represented a conversation – "_Are you ready? We'll need to take him quickly to keep him from his phone. I'll go left and you go right_," – was all rolled into one word.

"Yeah," replied Colby, and they moved forward, crouching, both of them suddenly glad of the sound-muffling, visibility-reducing rain.

They crept forward until they were positioned on either side of the vehicle, and both opened the doors at once, pistols pointing at the stunned Hispanic man inside.

"Hands on your head!" barked David, and he pulled the man out of the driver's seat into the rain, as the man complied.

Ramon blinked furiously, stupidly in the pouring rain, completely speechless, as they removed his phone and his gun. The two agents led him to a nearby tree, cuffed his hands behind his back around the trunk, and as they moved off, he was still standing with a dumbfounded look on his face, so shocked he barely noticed the rain.

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Dillon looked out the window expectantly. Sean and Walsh had taken positions behind the stacks of boxes flanking Don's prone form, and Ramon had called just moments before. Dr. Eppes would be here any moment, and according to Ramon, he appeared to be alone. The rain streamed against the window, but there was no mistaking the headlights or the vehicle; it pulled up right in front. Dillon watched as the slight figure climbed from the vehicle, and he stepped back from the window and retreated to the other side of the table. He nodded at Sean and Walsh as he moved, and they slipped out of sight behind the boxes. "He's here."

He reached the table and sat behind it, waiting. Four pairs of eyes turned toward the door, and for a moment, there was no sound but the pounding of the rain on the corrugated metal roof.

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End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, folks -_

**Chapter 18**

The door was unlocked, and Charlie pushed it open slowly, then stepped inside and dropped the jacket with one quick move, pointing his pistol at the figure seated at the table, his arm outstretched, and trembling just slightly. He'd been soaked by the time he made the few steps to the door; water ran in rivulets from his hair down his face; his clothes were plastered to his skin. Too late, he realized he'd forgotten to turn on his cell phone.

Dillon Moran smiled and rose from the table, picking up his own pistol from the table. He pointed it toward Charlie, but held it casually, lower down, close to his body. "Now, Professor, is this any way to start a dialogue?"

Charlie shot a quick nervous glance around him, and edged away from the door, slightly closer to Dillon and the table. The table stood several yards from the door in an open space, surrounded by pallets with stacks of boxes. That open space was illuminated by the only light in the room, suspended from the ceiling. The periphery of the warehouse was dark, as were the shadows cast by the stacks of boxes. He had no way of knowing who was back there, how many men. He fixed his eyes on Dillon, and took another step forward, still holding the gun in his outstretched arm. "Where's Don?"

Dillon jerked his head sideways, to an area between two of the pallets. Charlie couldn't see it from where he stood; one of the stacks of pallets was blocking it, and he edged forward, shooting quick glances at Dillon. As his brother came into view, he sucked in a shocked breath. Don was lying on his side facing him, his hands and feet bound. His face was swollen and bloody; one eye completely shut, and for a moment Charlie couldn't breathe – it looked as though Don had been beaten to death.

Don lifted his head slightly, taking in the sight of his brother, not with relief, but with dread. Charlie's clothes stuck to his thin body, and he was moving stiffly, his body radiating tension, one arm stuck out in front of him, pointing the pistol, rigidly, awkwardly, like a human version of a wind-vane. "Charlie, you need to get out of here," he rasped, his voice grating like sandpaper.

At his voice, he saw relief flood Charlie's face, followed by nervous determination. Charlie ignored him, and turned to Moran. "Untie him, and let me get him out of here. Then I'll sit down and talk."

Moran's smile deepened, and the light cast shadows on his face, turning the handsome features into a diabolical caricature. "No deal. Put your gun down, we'll talk, and then you can go."

Charlie shook his head. "No." He lowered the pistol slightly and cocked it, and then lifted it again. It would shoot without cocking, but cocking softened the kick – and he hoped the gesture would show Moran he knew how to use the gun; that he was serious.

Moran's eyes narrowed; and he lifted his own pistol suddenly and swung it sideways, pointing at Don. "I said, put your gun down, Professor."

A flood of panic rushed through Charlie as Dillon's arm swung toward Don, and almost without realizing he was doing so, he squeezed the trigger. The gun cracked, and although the bullet whizzed harmlessly overhead, Dillon jumped, nearly dropping his pistol, with a curse and a look of shock on his face. Charlie gaped for a second, just as shocked, then commanded sharply, "Put the gun down!"

A voice to his left made his head whirl, and his heart drop. Jason Walsh had stepped from behind a pallet of boxes next to Don, and was pointing his own pistol at Don's head. "Drop it Eppes!" he snarled.

He was much closer to Don, the pistol was just inches away from Don's temple, and Charlie froze. Dillon used the opportunity to advance around the table, as Don croaked, "Charlie, don't! Keep the gun – just back away and get out!"

Jason smiled, and pushed the barrel of his pistol against Don's head. "Your choice, Dr. Eppes. Drop the gun, or I pull the trigger."

Charlie wavered, his arm shaking from fear, adrenaline, and the strain of holding it up straight in front of him unsupported. He could feel panic rising inside. Relinquishing the gun meant giving up any tenuous advantage, but the thought of Don being shot, the sight of the gun against his defenseless brother's temple, had robbed him of any sense of power. '_I can't do it,_' he thought with despair, berating himself for his weakness, as he lowered the gun. He saw Don's good eye close, the look of defeat on his brother's face, and he knew he'd failed - even as he bent, and laid the pistol on the tile floor. He'd been stupid to think he could do this – he wasn't an agent – he wasn't Don – Don would have handled this – Don wouldn't have caved – Don would have been a hero, and unless the other agents got here quickly, now he was going to die, because Charlie didn't and Charlie wasn't…

"Step over here," directed Walsh, waving Charlie toward him, and Charlie complied, a disjointed litany of self-recrimination still tumbling through his brain.

Don watched as Charlie came toward him, shuffling; defeat apparent in his eyes, and a wave of despair washed through him – not for himself – but for Charlie. If only his brother had stayed away, if only he hadn't embarked on this brave but hopeless attempt at rescue, at least he could have been spared. Now they were both facing what was certainly a death sentence. He was aware of Walsh stepping back slightly to keep himself out of range of Charlie, should he suddenly decide to try for the gun.

Charlie, however, only had eyes for Don, as he drew closer. He knelt on one knee, and laid a gentle hand on Don's upper arm, his face filled with concern and regret. "I'm sorry," he whispered. He looked near tears, and Don felt his heart twist.

Moran was beginning to walk toward them, still pointing his pistol. "Talk, Eppes," he snarled. "Who is the other consultant?"

A voice came from behind the pallet of boxes on the other side of Don, and Charlie's head jerked up as Sean Moran came from behind them, into view. Rationally, he knew Walsh and Dillon were more dangerous, but Sean provoked a gut reaction of terror that he couldn't squelch. The younger Moran's face was alight with malice and anticipation.

"Let me at him," he cajoled. "I'll make him talk." He grinned and licked his lips. "His brother can watch."

Charlie rose to his feet, defensively, and in that instant, the situation changed. The door burst open and figures poured through it crouching, weapons leveled. "Drop it, Moran!" commanded Megan sharply, as Colby, David, and Decker fanned out behind her, all of them advancing. From her vantage point, she could see Dillon and Charlie and part of Don's upper body lying between the stacks of boxes, and she glanced quickly from side to side, looking for the others.

Those others reacted immediately; Walsh and Sean melted back around the stacks of boxes nearest them, one on either side of Don and Charlie, getting out of sight before the agents could advance far enough to see them. Dillon turned and fired as he tried to retreat, instinct taking over, and that unthinking reaction proved his undoing. Colby had a clear shot and he fired back, instantly, and Dillon staggered backwards past the boxes and fell hard on his back, gasping tortured last breaths as blood from an exploded aorta poured from his chest and mouth, the gun dropping from his limp hand. He landed only feet from Sean, who was hiding on the other side of the boxes, and Sean stared horrified, as Dillon gurgled one last time, weakly, and closed his eyes. The look lasted only a moment; horror turned to hate, and Sean crept around the side of the boxes with a murderous look, pulling out a switchblade that he'd gotten from Ramon.

Charlie had whirled to catch the scene behind him, but gun reports erupted in front of him now, and he spun back around, stunned by the rapid turn of events. Walsh was firing at the agents from behind the boxes, and Charlie, in panic, bent, trying to grab Don, and pull him away.

"Charlie!" gasped Don, his face suddenly filled with fear as he looked over Charlie's shoulder, and at the same time Megan yelled, "Charlie, watch out!"

Sean Moran had leapt from behind the boxes, his thin, lanky frame and hate-twisted expression making him look like a murderous animated gargoyle. Don's heart stopped as he saw the flash of the knife in Sean's hand. It disappeared from view as Sean landed behind Charlie, but Don didn't need to see it to know what happened next.

Charlie had jerked upright at their cry of alarm, but he was facing away from Sean, and clearly looking at Walsh. As if in slow motion, Don saw the muscles in Sean's bent arm contract, and then his forearm was moving forward, toward Charlie's back. Although Don couldn't actually see Sean's hand behind his brother, he knew the instant the knife made contact – the sudden stop of Sean's arm, the jerk, and then stiffening of Charlie's body. Charlie made no sound, but his eyes widened and his lips parted, frozen in shock.

Sean grabbed Charlie's shoulder and yanked his arm backward, pulling the knife out of his back for another attempt, but David and Decker were on him, and they dragged him away struggling and screeching like a banshee, as they forced him to drop the knife. More shots were being exchanged between Colby, Walsh and Megan, but Don didn't hear any of them – his eyes were glued to Charlie, who staggered and dropped next to him, slumping sideways facing him, the vacant look still on his face. Don stared at him, horrified. "Charlie," he whispered.

He felt odd, his ears were roaring, his head light, and he shook it a little, as he tried to comprehend what had just happened. Charlie had been stabbed – '_how bad_?' Don wondered desperately. The shots had stopped and sirens were sounding; and now Megan and Colby were bending over them, and still Charlie lay there, with staring eyes made blank by shock. He blinked suddenly, then reached out a shaky hand toward Don, and just a bit of the blankness on his face was replaced by regret. He was too weak to lean forward, and his hand stopped short of touching Don, and lay lifelessly, halfway between them on the tile.

"I'm sorry," Charlie whispered. "Ssscrewed up…"

Don could feel David's hands behind him, cutting through the ties that held his wrists, and he dragged a free arm in front of him, biting back a groan, fighting the surge of dizziness, the roaring sound, the vertigo that was threatening to take him under. He fought it desperately - somewhere in the back of his mind was the thought that if he let go, if Charlie let go, they'd never see each other again. He managed to put his hand over Charlie's, and squeezed lightly, forcing the words out with the last of his strength. "No, Buddy, you did good."

A flicker of surprise, then a grateful half smile, crossed Charlie's face, but the expressions were still muted, brief flashes in the glazed eyes, which were beginning to dull, to fade. His brother's face, staring, empty, but softened by a slight smile, was the last thing that Don saw, before darkness descended.

Megan waved the medics toward them urgently. She'd called in their backup and the ambulances right before they'd entered the warehouse, and the room was now swarming with local officers, who were escorting a pasty-faced Jason Walsh and a sobbing, gibbering Sean Moran out to waiting squad cars. The medics surged forward with their gurneys, three of them kneeling next to Charlie and Don, and a fourth darting over to Dillon Moran.

Their hands flew, taking pulses, blood pressures, as the agents watched anxiously.

"What do ya got?" asked one of them. Their conversation was muted, meant only for themselves, but the agents listened anxiously, unabashedly eavesdropping.

The other medic listened intently to Don's chest with a stethoscope. "This one's unconscious, pulse a little rapid, 85, BP 90 over 60, but stable. We might have a collapsed lung on the right side."

The other medic bent forward, looking into Charlie's half closed eyes. "Sir, can you hear me?" He looked at Megan. "What's his name?"

"Charlie."

"This one's gone," called the fourth medic, bending over Dillon, and he straightened and trotted back toward the others.

"Charlie, can you hear me?" asked the tech attending Charlie, and he shook his head at the lack of response. "This one's still conscious, but I don't like his vitals – they're dropping fast, and he's not responsive. Let's move him first."

David was positioned facing Charlie; he couldn't see the blood pooling behind him, and as they lifted the slight form, he took in his breath at the sheer volume of blood. They placed him on his side on the gurney, and David could see knife wound in the middle right side of his back. Charlie's T-shirt was still wet, soaked with rain and blood, and his eyes were now closed, the pale bruised face peaceful, dark damp ringlets tumbling over his cheek. Don too, looked as if he was in repose, his face, livid with bruises, a contrast to Charlie's paleness. Their lack of response was unsettling, and the agents exchanged worried glances.

The medics worked quickly, covering Charlie with a blanket and strapping him in, and one of the techs applied pressure to the wound as the other began to move the gurney. The other two medics were working on Don, lifting him onto the other gurney, as the first crew wheeled Charlie to the door. The ambulance had backed right up to it with its rear doors open, to minimize how far they would need to transport the gurney through the rain. In seconds, Charlie was in and on his way, and the second ambulance was backing up to the door, as they pushed Don's gurney toward it.

"Where are you taking them?" Megan asked. She could feel herself start to shake a little as the adrenaline began to wear off and shock and anxiety set in, and she steeled herself, fighting for control.

"East Valley Hospital," came the response, and she nodded, as the doors slammed shut behind Don's gurney. It pulled away with a blare of sirens, following the already distant wail of the first ambulance into the night.

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Alan stepped wearily through the front door and set down his luggage. It had been a long week, and he was thoroughly glad to be home. The house was quiet, but Charlie's car was outside and the lights in the dining room and kitchen were on. "Charlie?" he called. Silence answered him.

He sighed and lifted the suitcase, and walked it over to the foot of the stairs and set it down, before turning for the kitchen. Charlie was probably out in the garage, he mused, as he pushed open the door, and stopped in dismay. His eyes roved over the scattered kitchen furniture as he stepped slowly into the room, stopping suddenly as he saw the jagged splinter of chair leg and drops of blood. Lifting his head, he took in the traces of what looked like vomit in the sink, and his heart began to beat rapidly, as he turned, and headed for the phone.

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End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Huntington was now formally known as East Valley Hospital Medical Center. It lay just east of Pasadena, minutes south of the warehouse, and boasted the 10-bed Joy Slavik Memorial Intensive Care/Critical Care Unit, which that night only held one patient. That situation would shortly change, as two ambulances pulled up, one behind the other, followed closely by a third.

The ER staff had been notified, and were waiting, rooms cleared, as the gurneys came in, followed by two FBI agents, looking damp and disheveled, faces stern, eyes worried. "I've got this one," said Ryan Boyle, over his shoulder to his fellow physician, Dr. Robert Grimes, who was stepping forward to the second gurney. The radios had called in three critical patients, one of whom would likely be DOA. The dead man and the two patients were all coming from an industrial park to the north.

Dr. Boyle glanced at one of the agents, who followed his gurney in, but didn't comment. Technically, the man shouldn't be there, but Boyle allowed him; he might have some useful information. "What do we have here?" the doctor asked, as he glanced at the man's battered face.

"Male, late thirties -,"

"Thirty-seven," interjected David, who was standing at the head of the gurney.

The medic shot him a glance and continued. "Beating victim. Possible rib fracture and collapsed right lung. BP 88 over 60, pulse 87. Vitals fairly stable, but there is possible chest pressure." As the medic spoke, other technicians had moved in, cutting off the man's clothing, and Boyle noted the swollen left leg, and the nasty bruises on the man's torso. "There's evidence of head injury, and possible concussion," the medic added.

Dr. Boyle looked up at David. "Does he have a name?"

"Special Agent Don Eppes," David replied quietly. "Kidnap victim. We think he was beaten by his kidnappers."

"Okay," replied Boyle. "Let's get a stat portable chest X-ray for starters. I'm thinking he's going to need a chest tube. We'll worry about the rest of the X-rays after that."

David watched; wincing slightly, as they gently slid what was left of Don's shirt out from under his body. Don's face and torso were ugly with swelling and red-purple bruises, and David's jaw tightened as he watched, fear turning to anger. A bullet was too good for Dillon Moran, he decided, way too good.

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Dr. Robert Grimes was in speed mode, feverishly helping to remove his patient's clothing, as the medic breathlessly filled him in. "Male, early thirties, stab wound to the middle right back, kidney area. Significant blood loss, BP on the scene was 85 over 58, but it's been tanking ever since."

"Now 75 over 48," interjected an intern. "Pulse rapid, 115, weak."

Grimes glanced at the young man's torso. "What about the bruises?"

"I think he got those last night," offered Colby, who was standing by, tensely. He paused and rubbed his forehead, trying to remember what Don had told them about Charlie's injuries. "I think they said he had cracked ribs, but nothing else."

Grimes glanced at the agent, then at the monitors. He wanted particulars, but there was no time. "Call the OR team in stat, I think Atchison is on call. Let's get him intubated, and have a portable chest X-ray done in the OR."

Twenty minutes later, only the time necessary for intubating the patient, they were pushing the gurney out the door of the room at a trot, heading down the corridor for the elevator. Another gurney was coming in as they were going out, and Grimes could hear the medics calling out, "Got another one – a stabbing victim – we need a room!"

He slapped the intern next to him on the back as they pulled up in front of the elevator. "You take him up to Atchison. We've got another one – I've got to take him." The intern nodded, and Grimes turned away, jogging down the hall. Another stabbing victim. It was apparently going to be a busy night.

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With Don in X-ray and Charlie up on the surgical floor, Colby and David convened in the ER waiting area. Still too pumped up with worry and adrenaline to sit, they stood near the receptionist's desk, shifting from foot to foot; waiting, as the woman talked on the phone. Colby's interest was piqued as her voice rose, sounding a little impatient.

"No, I don't have anyone named Eppes, here, sir, I'm sorry. Three patients were just brought in, but I don't have their information yet – if you check back in a bit -,"

"Hold on, ma'am," interrupted Colby, and the young woman looked up. She was already a little frazzled, and David imagined from the look on her face that she didn't take well to the "ma'am."

"There are two Eppes, here," Colby explained. "We just brought them in – who is calling? Can I talk to him?"

"A man named Alan Eppes," she replied, and she handed him the phone with resignation, and a touch of exasperation. "At least someone knows what's going on here. I wish they'd tell me."

Colby stepped aside with the phone to his ear, and David moved closer to listen.

"Mr. Eppes, this is Colby," said Colby into phone, "we're glad you called – we didn't know how to reach you."

On the other end, Alan could feel his pulse ratchet up a notch. He'd called East Valley because it was the nearest hospital, and if anything, he'd expected a report that Charlie was there, maybe at worst getting stitches after falling and breaking the chair. The fact that Colby was there made him more than a little apprehensive, but he was still relieved to find someone who might know what was going on. "Colby, thank goodness. I just got home, and found a broken chair in the kitchen, and some drops of blood. Charlie wasn't here, but his car is – I thought that maybe he'd had an accident. Is he there, then?"

Colby paused for a moment, not sure where to begin. "Mr. Eppes, it might be best if you come here and we explain in person. Don and Charlie are both here – some things happened today – anyway, they're being admitted." He heard an odd clunk. "Mr. Eppes - sir?" He heard nothing. There was a reason for that.

Alan was already on his way out the door.

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Don groaned, and blinked. He was lying on something hard and cold; and he heard a voice. "Don't move, sir, we'll be done here in a minute." He heard a buzz; then movement next to him, and the owner of the voice was peering into his face. He hurt, God, he hurt. Vaguely, though, he recognized that it had become slightly easier to breathe, not like in the warehouse, when he'd been with Charlie…

He gasped suddenly as he remembered Charlie's face, the eyes staring as the life left them. He tried to push up, his one open eye roving wildly, disjointedly. "Charlie," he rasped, and he felt hands on his shoulders pushing him back down.

"Relax, sir." He heard the words only dimly – the roaring sound was back. He and Charlie were drifting in the black ocean, and he could feel the drag of the whirlpool, pulling them under. Charlie was ahead of him, the current taking him first, and Don could see him floating, not struggling, his eyes vacant, a soft smile on his lips. '_Fight it!_' he wanted to scream, but it was taking all his energy just to stay afloat, and he watched in horror as Charlie reached the vortex, and was sucked under. He was moving faster now, the black water whirling around him, and as he reached the center, it claimed him too, and he sunk into blackness, nothingness.

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Alan was hunched forward on the waiting room seat, and he ran a distraught hand over his face, and shook his head in confusion. "Wait, you said Don was kidnapped, and Charlie went in after him? Don't you have that backwards?"

Colby shot a sympathetic glance at Megan, who was gently trying to explain the situation. She and Decker, who had stayed behind to secure the scene and make sure someone picked up the Hispanic lookout, had arrived just seconds before Alan, and now the group was clustered in the waiting room. David had just given them what he and Colby knew about the brothers' conditions, which was minimal – that Don was in X-ray with a collapsed lung and a concussion, at best, and Charlie was in surgery with a stab wound to the back.

"Don was taken earlier today by Dillon Moran, his brother, and Jason Walsh," she said patiently. "They were trying to get him to tell them where Charlie was – he was assisting on their case."

"And where was Charlie?"

"Philadelphia. He went out earlier in the week and returned this evening."

Alan stared at her. "Philadelphia?" Before he left, Charlie had told him he was going to a math conference in Atlanta for two days. "And Don knew this, apparently."

Megan nodded. "He was involved too, but we didn't even know about it ourselves, until today. The investigation was highly confidential, primarily because of Jason Walsh."

Alan rubbed his face again. "Who was he, again?"

"FBI Internal Affairs Director. Charlie and I had a phone conference with him at your house."

Alan absorbed that for a moment. "Yes, I remember – he was involved in this?"

Megan nodded. "He was an old acquaintance of Dillon's. He tried to squelch the first investigation, unsuccessfully. As the Philly office dug into Dillon's activities on the East Coast, Jason's name came up. They brought Charlie out there to help their consultant. Somehow, Dillon and Walsh became aware of the investigation. Their men made an attempt at Charlie and the consultant out there last night, but Agent Decker here and his partner stopped it. When that failed, we think they decided to go after Don as leverage."

"And Don was at the house when that happened?"

Colby spoke up. "He and Charlie had found Sean Moran's hiding place just before Charlie left. Don and I were there with the crime scene techs. He wanted to get it cleaned up before Charlie came home." His face fell. "I left to go back to the office while he was finishing up. If I'd stayed there, none of this would have happened."

Megan shook her head. "Colby, they would have found some other way to get to him. None of us saw this coming, not even Don."

Alan was silent for a moment, as he remembered the kitchen, the signs of the struggle, and he tried to fight down the horror that the image generated. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear the rest of the story, but he steeled himself, and asked, "And Charlie? How did he get involved, if he was in Philadelphia?"

"He'd finished his part of the investigation, and had made plans to fly back. Sometime this afternoon or early evening, we think Moran and Walsh contacted him, and told him they had Don. We'd found out what was happening in the meantime, and we intended to take him to a safe house when he landed. We didn't know Charlie had been in contact with the kidnappers. When Charlie landed, he gave us the slip at the airport, and took off to meet with them."

Alan stared at her. "You must be mistaken – he couldn't have made that decision consciously. They must have tricked him somehow."

Megan's mouth twisted in a wry grimace. "I wish I was mistaken. No, he called us on the way. He apparently stopped to get his pistol, and took Don's SUV. He was afraid they would kill Don if he didn't come alone." She shook her head. "At least he called us – I don't think at first he even intended to do that. He insisted on going in alone – I couldn't talk him out of it, and we couldn't catch up to him in time. We were a few minutes behind him, but not close enough."

Alan was only half-conscious of the end of her statement; the image of his youngest son, who normally abhorred violence, charging off into the night with a gun, was almost too much to fathom. He shook his head helplessly. "I was only gone for a few days," he protested weakly. He looked up at them, scanning their faces as if looking for an explanation. "Four days. How could all this happen in four days?"

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Doctor Boyle glanced up as Dr. Grimes approached him, and leaned on the central desk in the ER. Grimes looked gloomy, and he slapped a file down with more energy than was needed.

Boyle looked at him sympathetically. "What's up?"

Grimes sighed and shook his head. "The young kid who came in – the high school student from the south side of town – he came in right after our first two guys. We lost him. Multiple stab wounds. He bled out before we could deal with them all."

Boyle sighed. "It's unreal. What in the hell are these kids thinking?" He looked at Grimes. "Then there was the GSW, Moran – he came in DOA. Tell me your first one went okay."

Grimes shook his head. "I don't know. He's in surgery with Atchison. He was a stab wound too – just one to the back, right renal area, but he was bleeding like hell. He didn't look so hot, but they got him here quick – maybe they can pull it out."

"If anyone can do it, it's Atchison," said Boyle. "Mine was beaten to a pulp – he's in X-ray now – I'm waiting for him to come back. He seemed to stabilize after we put in a chest tube, but the jury's still out on him until I get those results. Hell of a night."

"Yeah," sighed Grimes. "Hell of a night."

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End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

_A/N: Thanks for the reviews, all. Rhapsodista, you have me pegged. _

**Chapter 20**

Dr. Boyle grabbed his patient's file, and strode down the hall toward Grimes. "Hey, Bobby, I'm going out to update the family – did you hear anything on your guy?"

Grimes shook his head with a look of confusion. "He's still in surgery. I heard he coded, but they got him back. Doesn't really sound so hot, though. That's all – why?"

"Well, they're brothers – I guess their dad is out there."

"Brothers – seriously?" Grimes thought for a moment. "I don't know if it'll do any good to tell him that his son coded – at least not until Atchison is done. Better just tell them he's still in surgery, and we can have Atchison come out and update them."

Boyle snorted at him, as he headed past on his way to the waiting area. "Chicken."

Grimes grinned. "You got it. Good luck."

As Boyle reached the waiting room and saw the contingent of FBI officers, he realized that he was going to need that luck. He ignored them, however, and headed straight for the older man in their center. "Mr. Eppes?"

Alan had risen at the doctor's approach, his face hopeful. "Yes. I'm Alan Eppes, Don and Charlie's father."

"I'm Dr. Boyle. I have an update on your son Don," replied Boyle. He shot a meaningful glance at the officers, which Alan interpreted correctly.

"They can hear what you have to say."

Boyle nodded. He'd have to give them a report anyway; he was sure, for their investigation. This would save him some time. "We've stabilized him, and are moving him to our critical care unit for at least this evening. We could have opted to put him in a regular room, but we felt it was safer to put him in the CCU for tonight, where he'll be closely monitored. He has a moderate concussion, broken ribs, one of which pierced his pleural cavity, causing a tension pneumothorax, or collapsed lung. He also has a hairline leg fracture – his fibula, the smaller bone in his lower leg, and he has multiple contusions. One eye is extremely swollen – we don't believe the eye itself is badly injured, but we will have an ophthalmologist check it tomorrow, when some of the swelling has gone down. His injuries are not life threatening in and of themselves, but collectively, there is a lot of damage, which has an effect on chemical levels in his blood. For that reason, we want to watch him closely, until his blood levels stabilize. He has been drifting in and out of consciousness, and I imagine he'll be pretty out of it for a while, especially with the pain medication we're going to start. We'll let you know as soon as he's in a room."

Alan could feel nausea rising as the doctor cited the long list of injuries, and he concentrated on trying to breath evenly. "And my other son, Charlie – is there anything on him?"

Boyle's expression went flat, neutral. The others didn't seem to notice, but Megan's radar went up, and she watched him closely as he spoke. "He's still in surgery. The surgeon is Dr. Atchison; he's one of the best in L.A. He'll be out to update you when he's done."

Alan thanked him, and Boyle turned to escape, breathing a sigh of relief. It was short-lived, however; as he reached the doors a voice stopped him, and he turned to face the female agent. She had attractive eyes, and he had the perception that they missed nothing. That perception was verified as she spoke. "You didn't tell us everything, did you?" she asked softly. At his hesitation, she added, "It's alright; I won't tell the family anything you don't want known. I am running this investigation, however, and I need to be kept informed of the details."

"I did give him everything on his son Don. I don't have a direct report on his other son, but it doesn't sound like it's going too well. I understand he coded – they got him back, but the outcome is uncertain from the sounds of it. Atchison is good, though, and the fact is, it's just too early to tell. I didn't figure there was any sense worrying his father until we knew more."

Megan nodded, her expression clouding. "I agree with that; I think you're right. Thanks for the update."

Boyle nodded. "Sure." He took a last glance at her face; she seemed more troubled than he'd expect – it almost seemed as though there was a personal connection. He wondered about it, vaguely, but he wasn't going to stick around to ask. He'd never been particularly comfortable with this part of his job, especially when the news he had to deliver wasn't good. He pushed back through the doors, with a sigh of relief.

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When Don woke again, it was in a much brighter place. The ICU/CCU rooms were small, and filled with equipment, but the walls were light colored and the overhead lighting made him wince. The entire front wall of the unit was glass, and looked out on a central desk area, which was also brightly lit. The general atmosphere wasn't conducive to privacy, but the layout was efficient, and allowed the staff to keep a close eye on their patients.

He was a little more aware this time, which wasn't necessarily a good thing – his head, chest and leg were all throbbing, apparently trying to keep time with a softly beeping monitor next to his bed. Still, his mind was anything but clear; he had the foggy notion he was in a hospital room, and it took a minute to remember why. That brought along with it a memory of Charlie, and he felt a stab of fear in his gut as he remembered what happened in the warehouse. It was nothing like what he experienced though a moment later, as two CCU nurses walked by his door, and their conversation floated in.

"Yeah, I guess we're getting another one," one of them was saying.

"I think we're in for a busy night," said the other.

"Could have been busier yet, though. I heard they had a GSW who came in DOA, and there was a stabbing victim who they lost in the ER. Rotten night…,"

Their words faded as they passed, but it didn't matter; Don had lost any ability to focus after "stabbing victim," and "lost in the ER." He stared at the ceiling in shock, as a huge crushing wave of grief rose inside him, far more painful than any of his injuries. "Charlie," he moaned softly, as hot tears stung his eyes. "Oh, God, Charlie…,"

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Alan stepped in through the door of the CCU 3, and stopped, stunned. His older son was unrecognizable; his face swollen and misshapen; splotched with red and purple bruises. When he added the fact that Don was sobbing quietly, his face further contorted with grief, the person in the bed bore no resemblance to his son – none whatsoever. Alan felt his heart contract in his chest, a spasm of sympathy and pain, as he hurried forward, completely forgetting Megan and Colby behind him.

"Donnie, my God, what is it, son? Are you in pain?" Alan took Don's hand, and looked around wildly for a nurse.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Don choked, "I never should have gotten him that gun – it made – it made him think he could – I told him to get out, but he wouldn't listen -,"

Alan had looked back at him, frowning in bewilderment and despair and near tears himself, at seeing his son so battered, so distraught. "Donnie – it's okay – you need to calm down. He'll be okay -,"

"He's not okay!" The words came out with a rush, and a sob. "They said he didn't make it – it's my fault…"

Alan felt the room spin. "Didn't make it – who – who said that?"

"The nurses," Don whispered. "They said they – lost him." His head was throbbing, his body aching, and his heart ready to explode with grief – it was unbearable, he wanted it to end…

Alan staggered away from the bed, into Megan and Colby, who were standing stunned behind him. He reeled around them, and stumbled out of the door toward the nurses' station. "Charlie – what do you know about Charlie? What happened?"

The nurses looked at him in confusion and alarm – the man seemed deranged, his voice too loud, frantic. "I'm sorry, sir – I don't know -,"

Alan whirled away from them, blindly moving toward the elevator doors, almost colliding with a doctor who had just emerged from them. "Doesn't anyone know what in the hell is going on here?! I want to see my boy!"

The doctor, a trim man in his late forties, grabbed him by the arm to steady him. "Sir, please calm down – who is it you want to see?"

Alan finally broke, tears welling in his eyes, leaning heavily on the man. "Someone said he didn't make it – Charlie Eppes – my son…"

The doctor looked at him and, oddly enough, smiled. "That's news to me. I'm his surgeon, Dr. Atchison. I just left him a few minutes ago in recovery, very much alive. I'm happy to say, I think we even managed to save his kidney. I was just coming up to give you an update."

Alan looked at him rather stupidly, blinking the tears away. "He's alive?" He stared, then straightened suddenly, and placed a hand on the doctor's arm. "Would you please give us your update in my son Don's room? I think we both need to hear this."

Atchison nodded amiably. "Certainly."

He followed Alan into CCU 3, passing two FBI agents, whose relieved faces earned them a second glance. One of the nurses also entered to listen in the event the doctor had instructions, but Don was oblivious to the small crowd gathering in his room, his eyes closed, still streaming with tears.

"Donnie," said Alan in a voice shaky with relief. "I don't know what you heard, but Charlie's okay. This is his surgeon – he came up to give us an update."

Don blinked, and then turned his one good eye on them, confusion on his face. "But the nurses – they said they lost him in the ER -,"

"Oh, my God," said the nurse, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Oh – that was us – we were talking outside his room about a stabbing victim who didn't make it – we didn't even know he could hear us – oh, my God, I am so sorry-," She took a few steps toward Don, as if to touch his arm; then stopped herself, looking at him, her eyes pleading for forgiveness. "It was someone else – I'm sorry." She looked in panic at Atchison – she knew the indiscretion could mean her job.

Don looked at her, then at Alan as if for confirmation, and asked weakly, "He's okay?"

Dr. Atchison took the question. "Yes – he's okay. I won't lie to you – it was touch and go for a while. He'd lost a lot of blood – the knife blade entered his renal capsule, and nicked a large blood vessel leading from the hepatic artery on the way in. We managed to stop the bleeding, and I think chances are good that we saved his kidney. He is in critical condition, however – at one point his heart stopped on the table, but it was a very brief episode. He'll need several units of blood, and we'll need to watch him closely, but I would term the surgery a raging success. In fact, they should be bringing him up here in about a half hour." He looked at Don and smiled reassuringly. "He'll be in the room right next to yours."

There was a tandem sigh from Don and Alan, and Don closed his good eye, and took in a shaky breath. Atchison glanced at the agents behind him. "I surmise you were here to question him – I think after all this excitement, he probably needs a rest. Can it wait?"

"Actually, we were just here to see him," said Megan. "He's a - ," she hesitated, looking for the word – "coworker, and friend. We can come back later." She smiled at Don, who had opened his right eye again. He was too drained to come up with words, but shot her and Colby a look of gratitude, as they turned and walked out.

He felt a hand on his; it was Alan, who squeezed it gently. "Just rest now, Donnie," he heard, as he closed his eyes, feeling as though a weight was lifting from his chest. The pain seemed suddenly easier to bear, and moments later, as the nurse added pain medication to his IV, he drifted off to sleep. Just before it claimed him, he had a vision of his brother's face, still with the soft smile, but the eyes had lost the dull vacant look. They were looking directly at him, warm and alive, and he smiled back.

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A half hour later, Alan waited outside CCU 4, as they wheeled Charlie in, carefully, and began to situate him, hooking up monitors, arranging IV's. Oddly, he felt slightly disappointed; he'd had the hope that his son would be conscious. Not only was Charlie still out, he was intubated, and the tubes snaking into and out of him were daunting. IV's containing medications and blood, a drainage tube, and an additional tube leading from the foot of the bed to a bag that looked like another blood transfusion, until Alan realized with a sickening jolt that it led from a catheter – the normally clear yellow fluid was red with blood draining from Charlie's kidney.

As the room cleared, he stepped forward, and gently pushed a bedraggled lock of hair from his son's pale face. He could see bruises on his cheekbone and jaw, and although his face was not nearly as damaged as his brother's was, the pallor and complete stillness were disconcerting. It was broken only by the faint movement of his son's chest, in time with the whoosh of the respirator. Alan laid a gentle hand on his son's arm, and shook his head, as he tried to imagine him driving off into the night in his brother's SUV, armed with a pistol.

He shook his head in amazement. "Charlie, what were you thinking?"

There was no response but silence, and the soft hiss of the respirator.

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End Chapter 20

_A/N: There are only two more chapters after this one, and I intend to wrap up the loose ends. However, I am inserting a shameless commercial. At Tanager36's urging I am going to start posting a new story, called Bird Flu. I was going to wait until this one was done, but T36 has twisted my arm. It's a plot bunny that is over two years old, and it still seemed worth writing. Hopefully you'll think the same!_


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Two days later, Don pushed himself a bit more upright with a wince, expectantly, as Charlie's bed was wheeled into the room. Don had been removed from the CCU the day before, and had spent most of that day in a medicated haze. Today they'd reduced the medication, and he was a bit more coherent, much to Alan's relief. Apparently, in his waking moments, Don had asked every two minutes about Charlie – seeming to forget he'd just asked the question moments before. Alan had teased him about it that morning at breakfast, his voice brimming with barely suppressed joy.

It was good to see a sparkle in his father's eye – a sparkle that was generated partly by the fact that Charlie was improving enough to be moved from the CCU himself that morning, and partly from the fact that Alan had gotten a decent night's sleep last evening.

The evening before last, Alan had remained in the CCU all night, bouncing between his sons' rooms like a ping-pong ball, and yesterday he was exhausted, feeling the effects of the lack of sleep and the stress. Today, things were looking much better. He was rested; his sons were going to be in the same room, and best of all they were improving. Alan knew they were both eager to see each other; he'd tried to reassure them and pass on messages, but he knew it would give them a good deal of comfort to be in the same room. The only fly in the ointment was that Charlie was running a bit of a fever that day, but it wasn't enough to keep him in the CCU. It was now ten in the morning, and they were wheeling him in.

Charlie's head was turned, and his eyes found Don as soon his line of sight allowed him. He waited until he'd been situated and the attendants had left before he spoke. "You're looking good."

His voice was weak, and the words were sarcastic, but they were delivered with a warm smile and an affectionate look. Don grinned back at him. "You've looked better yourself, pretty boy." Charlie's bruises were fading, he noticed, but his brother looked weak, pale, and a little glassy-eyed from the fever.

Charlie's grin widened a little. "Trust me; you're no competition right now." The swelling in Don's face had gone down a great deal, but it was still a study in odd colors, punctuated by the occasional small dark mark that signified a healing cut. "How's your eye?"

Don blinked, as if to test it. It was still somewhat swollen, but he could open it now. "Okay. I can see okay – I think the eye doctor said it was all right. I was a little out of it yesterday." He looked at Alan for confirmation.

Alan beamed at him. "Yes, he said all the damage was confined to area around the eye, which will heal in time." He rose, and Don could almost see the relief emanating from him in waves. "I think I'll go down and get a cup of coffee and a paper. You boys can talk to each other for a change."

He stepped out, and the room grew quiet for a moment. "Dad said your leg is broken," said Charlie softly.

Don shrugged. "Yeah, it's the small bone, and it's just a crack. I don't think they're even going to put a regular cast on it – they're gonna give me an air cast. The ribs actually hurt more. They take my chest tube out today, and I'm supposed to get up and walk." He grimaced. "Not that I'm looking forward to that." He glanced at Charlie with a smile, which faded as he caught his brother's gloomy expression. "What's wrong?"

Charlie looked at him, earnestly, sadly. "I'm sorry – this happened to you because I took that consulting job. I know what you mean now about feeling responsible – it's my fault you're in here."

Don snorted, and shook his head. "Charlie, no it's not. It's Moran's and Walsh's fault, no one else's. You can't be accountable for their actions."

Charlie sent him a sly smile. "Then it follows that you weren't accountable when I was kidnapped. You just argued with your own rationale for assuming responsibility for my consulting work."

Don blinked, and opened his mouth, then closed it, searching for a response.

Charlie smirked, "Gotcha."

Don managed to collect himself, and returned Charlie's gaze, directly. "Regardless, you have to promise me, you'll never do anything like that again. I would never have talked you into that gun if I thought you were going pull something like that."

Charlie huffed softly and laughed, then winced. "You think the gun made a difference? I would have gone anyway, whether or not I had it." His face twisted in self-disgust. "The fact was; the gun was irrelevant - I was too afraid to use it. When I saw Walsh with his pistol to your head…," His voice trailed off, his eyes clouding at the memory, and then he shook his head, morosely. "I just blew that whole thing. Thank goodness your team was coming in behind me."

Don shook his head. "Charlie, you didn't blow it – what you did was one of the bravest things I've ever seen." His heart warmed as he saw Charlie's uncertain smile, and he grinned with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "One of the stupidest, but one of the bravest."

Charlie's smile widened a little. "Two can play at this Superman stuff, you know."

"Superman – oh, no – _I'm_ Superman, you said so. You're more like – the Boy Wonder."

"No way. I'm at least Batman." They grinned at each other, and Charlie sighed, and closed his eyes. "I think I am going to sign up for those classes at Quantico," he said, his eyes still closed.

Don regarded him for a moment. "It's probably a good idea, but you might as well wait for spring now. You're probably going to have surgery on your shoulder, right? And you need to heal up from this, too. They're going to hold some classes right here in L.A. in the spring – you can go to those."

Charlie nodded, his eyes still closed. He looked tired, thought Don. "You feeling okay?"

Charlie sighed and opened his eyes. "Kind of lousy, actually. I think I felt better last night. Maybe I was just so out of it, I didn't know any better."

Don grunted agreement. "Yeah, I hear you there. They had me on the good stuff yesterday." He fell silent for a moment, watching his brother's profile. "I suppose Amita didn't have anything good to say about all this."

He regretted the words immediately, as a look of sadness flitted over Charlie's face, and he closed his eyes again. "I wouldn't know," he said softly. "I haven't talked to her."

Don glanced subconsciously at his feet, as if he expected to find one of them in his mouth. He didn't quite know what to say to that – granted, he knew Amita had been angry with his brother, but he was shocked to find that she hadn't visited, hadn't even called. He looked back at Charlie, who was pretending to be asleep, but Don could see the dejection in his face. Quiet descended, and Don leaned back, settling into his pillow, emotions tumbling through him – sadness for Charlie, relief at seeing him, at talking to him - and something else.

He'd never been dependent on anyone before, but now, when he hadn't expected it, there was Charlie, supporting him in a way that had nothing to do with numbers. It was true his brother was no seasoned agent, and he'd made mistakes in his attempt at rescue, but when Don's life was on the line, he hadn't retreated, hadn't freaked out. Charlie had been there for him unconditionally, with no regard for his own safety. He suddenly realized for the first time in his life that he had someone other than his parents to support him, someone he could lean on if he needed. Charlie had his back. He chuckled a little at the concept, but it gave him a warm feeling, and he smiled as he closed his eyes. "Thanks, Batman," he whispered, and he drifted off to sleep.

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Amita paused nervously outside the door. She'd stepped up to the doorway to knock, only to catch a glimpse of Alan helping Don to his feet, and had stepped backwards immediately out of sight, waiting until they came through the door. Her view had been fleeting, and so she wasn't quite prepared for the sight of Don, hobbling on his braced leg, his face purple with bruises, as he came through the door, with Alan holding one arm.

"We'll just make this a short trip," said Alan, breaking off as he caught sight of Amita, and he and Don just stared for a moment, making her even more flustered.

"I – ah - I thought I'd stop and see how you were doing," she stammered.

Don raised his good eyebrow. "Me, or Charlie?" he asked pointedly.

"B-both." God, this was awkward. "Larry told me what happened."

Don's look was speculative, bordering on suspicious, but Alan's face softened at her obvious distress. "Charlie's asleep right now, but you can go in and sit. If he's not awake when we get back, we'll wake him for you."

She nodded, flushing, dropping her eyes to avoid Don's steady gaze as they moved from the doorway, and made her way inside, not looking up until she was next to Charlie's bed. The sight of him in the hospital bed made her heart flutter in panic – it reminded her so much of him after his kidnapping. He had nearly died, and she had nearly died with him; she still hadn't quite gotten over that. The resulting fear of losing him had been so intense; it had colored her perception of him, of their relationship, ever since.

She sank into a chair, looking miserably at her lap. As horrible as that had been, the last week had been almost as bad. The old adage – "you can't live with 'em, and you can't live without 'em," had been brought home with painful clarity. She couldn't stand for him to be in a position where he might be in danger – she had told herself after his near brush with death that she could never go through that again, it was too painful. She couldn't live that way. Unfortunately, she'd found during the last week that being apart from him wasn't any less painful; she couldn't live that way either.

She was still torn – wondering if she went back to him, if she would somehow be able to come to grips with the fact that his consulting work might sometimes put him in danger – and weighing that against the possibility that if she moved on, the hurt of breaking up would be fierce at first, but would gradually lessen. Was he worth it, she wondered – dealing with that constant fear, on top of the peculiar advantages and disadvantages of his genius, and his own human flaws? Did she love him enough to put up with it all? Perhaps more to the point, did he love her enough to trust her, to confide in her? She had to admit, he'd been doing none of that since the kidnapping.

It hadn't helped that he'd taken this last job in spite of her disapproval, and had nearly been killed again. It hadn't helped, but it _had_ been a catalyst – it had made her decide to face him again, at least to see what he had to say. Maybe, if she was brave enough, to tell him what she really thought. If she did that, it was possible he would confide in her too. The outcome might not be good, but at least they'd know where they stood with each other.

She raised her eyes from her lap, and took in his face. The dear, disheveled curls – God she loved that hair - the stubble on his pale face, the bruises. The sight of him so close made her heart contract, and she reached out without thinking, the longing to touch him overriding rational thought. She grazed his cheek lightly with the back of her hand – he felt too warm, she thought fleetingly - and jerked it back when he stirred. For a moment, she thought he would fall back asleep, but then his eyes flickered open. They looked tired, unfocused, and bright with fever, but as he caught sight of her, they opened wide, and he struggled to sit up, without thinking.

He immediately gasped, his face contorting, and she gasped too, laying a restraining hand gently on his shoulder, as he eased backwards. "I'm sorry," she exclaimed, "I didn't mean to startle you. Your dad told me to come in."

Charlie struggled for composure, taking a deep shaky breath that made him wince again, with a quick glance across the room that told him they were alone. "It's okay," he said, "I just forgot that I can't move like that yet." He lay there as his breathing quieted, just drinking in the sight of her – so wonderful; and so painful at the same time. "Thanks for coming."

The words came out stiffly, and this time, she winced. She looked down, her face reddening, as she searched for words. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. She swallowed, and looked up, and at the same time they both said, "I'm sorry."

That wrung a small smile from both of them, but Amita's faded as she forged on, determinedly. "I've been thinking about you – about us. I have to admit, I've been pretty confused. I'm having a hard time lately with your consulting – not the consulting itself, I suppose, but the position it's put you in, with this case. I'm still not sure I can handle this." She waved vaguely, a gesture meant to take in the tubes, the bed, the hospital itself, and tears welled in her eyes. "I wasn't sure I could come here – it reminded me too much of - before," she stopped and struggled for control for a moment, then continued. "I felt I needed to, though – we have to talk."

Charlie's heart dropped at the ominous-sounding last phrase. '_She's getting ready to break it off – for good_,' he thought, and he stiffened, as if preparing for a blow.

"What I found out the last week is that, as hard as it is to worry about your consulting work, I'm having just as hard a time with the thought of not being with you anymore." She looked at him, pleading for understanding. "When we started dating, I never dreamed that something like this would happen. I would have had second thoughts about dating anyone in law enforcement, because of the danger, and the stress. There's a good reason why a lot of those relationships end in divorce. You're a teacher - I didn't know you would be pulled into work with the FBI as deeply as you have been. If I had, I might have had second thoughts about even beginning that relationship. But we're here now, and I have to deal with it."

He was silent, and she rushed ahead, her words spilling out quickly, full of emotion. "I know how much it means for you to do this – to work with Don. I don't want to take that from you, or for you to give it up, and then resent me for it. At the same time, I don't know how I will handle this – stress - on our relationship. I've decided though, that I want to try – if you do. If we're honest with each other – if we communicate – maybe we can make it work."

Charlie gaped at her, wondering if he'd registered that correctly. He'd been so sure she was going to use this latest case as an excuse to end it; he was completely unprepared with a response. "Of – of course – I do – I mean I will – I want to try," he stammered. He'd been feeling an odd tightness in his chest as she talked, like a band around his heart, and it suddenly released, making him almost giddy.

A small smile softened the pain in her face. "It means we have to talk – really talk. No surprises. If you need to take cases, please don't let me be the last to know – and in return, I'll try my best not to fuss. I won't guarantee I won't worry, but I'll try not to give you a hard time. Just please don't – lie about it."

Charlie's face fell. "I know," he said softly. "That was wrong. I was trying to get a couple of cases under my belt without incident, and then tell you – I thought maybe it would calm your fears." He snorted softly, and shook his head. "I guess that didn't work out too well." He raised his eyes to hers, apology and longing in his gaze. "I really missed you."

She leaned forward and grazed his forehead softly with her lips. "I missed you, too."

He reached a hand up and pulled her down slightly, snaking his hand through her hair as he drew her into a kiss, deep and soft, and felt his heart soar.

Don and Alan had made the journey down the hall and back, and shuffled up to the doorway to find Charlie and Amita engaged in the kiss, oblivious to their surroundings.

They exchanged a glance, and Alan smiled with satisfaction. "Now, that's more like it."

He wanted to give them privacy, but Don, although he was trying not to show it, was more than ready for his bed, and Alan gently steered him into the room. As they entered, Amita straightened; blushing, but the approving glances from Don and Alan alleviated her embarrassment, slightly.

She felt even better, when Alan said heartily, "Welcome back, dear."

"Thanks," she said softly, and exchanged a smile with Charlie. "It's good to be back."

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End Chapter 21

_A/N: One more to go, with some final resolution._


	22. Chapter 22

_A/N: And now for the wrap-up. Thanks to all of you who stuck with this - SG_

**Chapter 22**

It had been an eventful day. Don's team had stopped by, and so had Larry, and Don had taken two short excursions down the hall, and two to the bathroom. By the time early evening hit, he was exhausted and sore, and looking forward to his next dose of pain medication, even if it wasn't the really good stuff he'd had the day before. Charlie had spent the day bed-bound, still tethered to his catheter, and although he'd spent much of it drifting in and out of a restless sleep, he seemed even more exhausted than Don. His fever was on the rise, and the bag attached to the catheter, which had been starting to clear, was now looking dark again. Doctor Atchison and Charlie's attending physician had been in, along with another specialist in infectious diseases, and they'd changed his antibiotic for something stronger.

In spite of seeming weak and tired, Charlie seemed in good spirits. The visit from Amita had done him a world of good, and when he was awake, he seemed relaxed, content. While he was asleep, however, either the fever or some other demon took hold – he muttered and moaned, restlessly trying to throw off his covers.

Now it was around 6:30 p.m. Alan had gone home for dinner and a shower, Charlie had drifted off again after dinner, and Don was heavy-lidded, thinking about following him. His head jerked and he blinked as he heard a moan and stirring in the other bed, and looked over to see that Charlie had managed to dislodge his blankets again, along with his hospital gown, exposing a lot more of his physique than he should have.

Don sighed. Alan would have fixed the situation if he was here, but he wasn't, and Charlie would be mortified if Don pressed the call button. He hated to wake him, but… "Charlie. Charlie, wake up."

A soft groan was all he managed to provoke; Charlie's eyes were still shut tight. Don tried again, louder, with no effect, and finally, leaned forward and put on his air cast, and slipped out of bed, with a look of exasperation. He hobbled over, gingerly grabbed the end of Charlie's hospital gown, and yanked it down, and was reaching for the blankets as Charlie suddenly cried out, thrashing violently.

Don grabbed his arms, wincing at the pull in his chest, as Charlie's eyes opened, wildly, and he lay there panting. "Hey, hey, relax, Batman. I was just fixing your cape."

Charlie was trembling, but recognition came into his eyes, and he slumped back against the pillow, as Don gently released his grip. Don regarded the flushed face with concern. "You okay?"

Charlie stared back for a moment, then nodded and licked dry lips. "Yeah." He looked away, his voice hoarse.

Don frowned, watching him for a moment. "Nightmare?"

Charlie winced, and shuddered a little. "Yeah. The usual." He turned a bleary eye on Don, as it registered that his brother had gotten out of bed to attend to him. "Sorry."

The corner of Don's mouth quirked in a smile. "Don't mention it. I didn't want to leave you hanging out there – it might have given _me_ nightmares."

He didn't think it was possible, but Charlie flushed even more deeply. "I guess I keep pushing the blankets off." He sighed. "I'd probably sleep better on the floor."

Don turned and hobbled for his bed. "When you get out of here, you _are_ talking to someone about that. There must be some kind of mental cycle you need to break there."

A noise from behind him made him turn. Charlie was twisting sideways, his face green. "I think I'm gonna be -,"

Don stepped back quickly as Charlie gracelessly lost his dinner, and grimaced as he reached behind him for the call button. "I don't mind covering you up, Buddy, but I draw the line there." He sent Charlie a rueful smile, but concern stirred in his gut as he saw Charlie lie back with a groan, his skin covered with beads of sweat. He had a feeling that a long day was about to turn into a long night.

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It did, Don reflected, as he pushed tiredly at rubbery scrambled eggs the next morning. Charlie was doing a little better, finally, but he'd gotten worse before the new antibiotic started to kick in. His fever had spiked high enough that he was sent for a CAT scan at close to midnight, as the doctors, concerned about a possible abscess; tried to determine the extent of the infection. Fortunately, there was no sign of that, and finally, about four in the morning, Charlie's temperature started to come down. Alan had come back after dinner, and finally went home at around 4:30 a.m., and Charlie was now sleeping peacefully, his exhaustion ostensibly overcoming any dreams.

It also apparently overrode any extraneous noises, Don found out a few moments later. He looked up at the knock on the door, and set down his fork abruptly, startled, as Dave Maxwell poked his head in the room. "Agent – can I come in?"

Don pushed the tray away, and straightened a bit. "Yes – Director, yes sir. Come in."

Maxwell stepped in quietly, with a glance at Charlie. "I won't be long."

Don regarded him with barely concealed surprise. "Are you out here for a meeting?"

Maxwell smiled, his keen eyes taking in Don's appearance – the bruising, the pain and fatigue in his face. Still, the agent's eyes were sharp, his gaze direct and confident. A difficult man to rattle, apparently. But then, Maxwell already knew that. "Actually, yes. With you. I wanted to come out and see how you and Charlie were doing, and to thank you personally. Considering what you both went through, I thought I owed you that, and an update."

Charlie finally stirred behind him, and Maxwell and Don looked over as he opened his eyes and blinked sleepily. As he caught sight of Maxwell, his eyes widened in surprise, and he fumbled for the covers in front of him, obviously trying to make sure he was decent. Don tried hard to stifle a grin, as Maxwell stepped over and extended a hand to his decidedly flustered brother. "Director, I'm sorry sir, I didn't realize you were here." Charlie shot Don a quick glance that said, '_Why didn't you wake me?_' as he shook Maxwell's hand.

"Don't apologize, Doctor, I'm sorry I woke you. I just got here, and was just preparing to give Don an update."

He pulled up a chair, and sat between them. "First of all, I wanted to thank you, agent, for your information on what your team found concerning the meth lab layouts and security in L.A. It proved invaluable when the Philadelphia team went in to take them down. And of course, Doctor, that would not be possible without your work to identify them. We believe we got them all, and most of the personnel involved. We also arrested Patrick Conaghan, Lenny Angelo's equivalent in the Philly area, and of course, Sean Moran and Jason Walsh."

A slight shadow passed over his face, and he looked at Don. "Jason, obviously, was a huge disappointment. I became suspicious of him during your dealings with Moran in L.A., especially his attempts to close down your investigation. I had nothing concrete until Charlie found the link with his programming -,"

"Willy," corrected Charlie, with a twinkle in his eye.

Maxwell grinned. "Until _Willy_ found the link with his programming – although, Professor, in this case we have back-up tax records to corroborate your findings, plus Willy's assertion that the programming wasn't biased, so the judge is accepting your involvement in the Philadelphia case. It turns out we didn't need Willy after all – although I have to say, I think we've acquired a resource in him for the future. He's already offered his services to the Philadelphia office for future cases – you apparently were a big influence on him."

He sobered a bit, and continued. "Sean Moran has gone through a psychiatric re-evaluation. During the last few weeks, as the meth left his system, his thought processes regained some normalcy. He was due for a re-evaluation anyway, to see if he was fit to stand trial. The few hits of meth he managed to get his hands on during the hours he was out were not enough to re-initiate psychosis, and the results came back that he is rational. He's being held in prison while he awaits trial for attempted murder in your cases, and for first-degree murder of the firefighter. According to the D.A., he will face the death penalty. Jason Walsh, in addition to drug and money laundering charges, will face charges of kidnapping, conspiracy to commit murder, and of tampering with federal records. He will more than likely spend the rest of his natural life behind bars."

He stood, and stepped over to clasp Charlie's hand again, and then Don's. "I want to thank you both for the personal sacrifices you made on this case." He looked at Don directly. "I know our inquiries into what happened concerning Charlie's field clearance, among other things, didn't make your life any easier, Don. For that, I apologize to you both, and I want to thank you for sticking with this, in spite of the roadblocks that were put in your way. I can assure you, Agent Eppes, I have no qualms about how you run your office – there's no doubt in my mind it's among the best in the country."

"Thank you, sir," replied Don quietly. He could see Charlie's proud smile from across the room, and somehow, it seemed to weigh more than the praise he'd just been given.

Maxwell nodded. "And with, that, I'll let you both get some rest. You've certainly earned it. Thanks again."

He stepped out, and silence descended for a moment. Don looked over, and caught Charlie's eyes on him, shining with pride. "So," said Charlie, "what do you do for an encore, Superman?"

Don grinned. "Well, for one thing, I take the Boy Wonder out for a steak when we get out of here, to thank him for watching my back."

"Batman."

"Whatever."

"Or maybe Rambo. I was pretty manly, toting that gun in your SUV."

"Don't push it." Don grinned at him, his eyes crinkling. He regarded his brother for a moment, and realized, with a hint of surprise, that he was actually looking forward to working with him again. The worry that Charlie might be in danger would never quite go away, he knew, but somehow, after the last week it seemed easier to deal with. He'd spent the last few weeks fighting something that he realized now had been close to depression – he'd been shaken to his foundations; his sense of conviction, his desire to do the job waning. Now that optimism was back, and he knew its presence had a lot to do with Charlie. "You know, we're not a bad team."

Charlie looked back at him, his smile full of affection. "I always thought so." He sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes.

Don regarded him with a mischievous smirk. "Rambo," he repeated, chuckling to himself with a shake of his head. "More like, Ram-boy."

"I heard that."

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Don paused, his body coiled like a snake, his eyes intent, the thump of the basketball in front of him the only sound for a moment. Suddenly, he charged directly toward Charlie, faked left; and veered deftly right. Charlie backpedaled, his arms up, but Don completed a graceful lay-up, and grinned cockily as he stepped back.

Charlie shot him a look of appreciation, with just a bit of wickedness in his smile. "Not bad for an old guy."

Don stooped and grabbed his beer, took a swig, and eyed Charlie speculatively, as his brother retrieved the ball. "Your arm looks pretty good."

Charlie raised his left arm straight up, demonstrating, as he dribbled the ball with his right. "Yeah, I can lift it almost all the way up now. It still gets stiff, but it's almost back to normal."

He turned, and put up a smooth jump shot, as Don took another drink. It was a sunny March Sunday, over four months since their dealings with the Moran brothers. Those months had come with challenges of their own – Charlie's corrective shoulder surgery, and Sean Moran's trial. Don still had a mental image of Charlie in the courtroom, fresh off the surgery, arm in a sling, his face pale and set as he observed the proceedings. They'd both had to testify themselves, which wasn't stress-free, either, especially for Charlie. His days spent as a captive of the psychotic killer weren't something that would easily be erased. He'd started physical and mental therapy at the same time, and Don had begun serious sessions of his own with Bradford. He knew his head was in a much better place because of it, and he wondered if Charlie was doing as well as he was.

The thought prompted the question. "How's the other therapy going?"

Charlie had been dribbling, and he stopped and put the ball under his arm, and bent to retrieve his own beer. "Good. He dropped me back to once a month."

"Sleeping okay?"

"Yeah."

"I mean – in a bed?"

Charlie took a swig of beer. "Yeah." He blushed a bit. "Actually, it wasn't so much the therapist who helped me out there. It was Amita."

Don grinned. "I'll bet."

Charlie's blush deepened. "Not like that – well, maybe – no, I won't go there. No, once I admitted to her that I was having the problem, when she started spending the night again, she made me sleep in the bed with her. I had nightmares, still, but she – well, it just helped to have her there, that's all. I still have a nightmare once in a while, but I can handle it." He sobered a little. "It helped to know that Sean Moran was put away for good."

Don gave an emphatic nod, as he took a drink. Charlie didn't mention Sean Moran' s ultimate punishment - he'd been given the death penalty. Don knew, in spite of what his brother had suffered that he had reservations about that - it bothered him that his testimony was helping to put someone else to death, no matter who it was. Don followed suit, and sidestepped the issue. "You got that right. We done here, or am I gonna kick your ass some more?"

Charlie snorted good-naturedly. "You're the one with the shoeprints on your butt. I think I've asserted my superiority sufficiently, thank you." He turned and trotted toward the garage, and tossed the ball inside.

He grinned as he walked back toward his brother. Don looked good, he thought. _They_ were good. He'd never felt as close to his brother as he had in the last few months. There was still a void there, born of many years of both physical and psychological separation, and they didn't always understand each other, still, but they were closing the gap. His relationship with Amita, which had been rocked by what happened, remained somewhat uncertain, but in an important way, it was stronger. They talked more, they were more open with each other, and dealt with problems directly, which before, they would have avoided rather than confront. The weeks of fear and uncertainty had receded, and seemed to have left them all on solid ground.

They trooped into the kitchen, and Don took an appreciative whiff. "What's for dinner?"

"Chicken piccata," said Alan breezily, as he set vegetables on the counter. "One of you wash your hands, and help me out here."

Charlie obliged, and Don watched them for a moment, and then pushed through the kitchen door, wandering into the living room with his beer hanging from his hand. The television was on, and a weather commentator was discussing the long-term outlook for that year's forecast.

"Of course, after last year's devastating fires," she intoned, "everyone is wondering what the prospects are for this year. Mike, tell us what we expect this year's thermal flow patterns will do to the Santa Ana winds." Mike began an animated discourse, but the mention of the winds and the fire made Don's mind wander backwards to those frightening weeks. The events seemed far away now, but he knew well that they'd had lasting effects, mostly for the better, especially as far he and Charlie were concerned. It was as if they'd survived a trial by fire, and come out of it stronger, and wiser.

He looked around the room, drinking in the tranquil late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows. There was a time right after he'd come back to L.A. where he felt a bit like a stranger here – he'd had memories of it as home, but it didn't quite feel the same, mostly because of his then tenuous relationship with his brother. Charlie had taken the place and made it his own, and Don had been unsure of his status there. Now, though, he knew he belonged, and it was because he and his brother had reached a place where they felt truly like family. He took a deep breath, and felt a satisfying peace in his soul. Charlie pushed through the door on his way toward the stairs, and gave him a warm smile as their eyes met, and Don smiled back. Yes, there was no question. He was home.

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End, Santa Ana Wind, Part III - Dillon


End file.
